Plot Bunnies
by gbakermatson
Summary: Just random plot drabbles that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote them down. I'm not terribly good at fleshing things out, so they'll likely remain unfinished indefinitely. Rated M because if I do decide to flesh these out, some will have very bad people doing very bad things.
1. A Theory of Magic

Every intelligent (to a certain point) living being consists of three parts: Body, Spirit, and Soul.

The Body is self-explanatory, to a point. It is obviously the physical makeup of the being in question, but it is also the properties of said makeup, such as the physics-defying nature of dragonflight and the unnatural resilience of troll hide.

The Spirit is less obvious. It is the measure of how much vital essence a creature has. It is difficult to quantify, however. Dragons must have a massive amount, surely. They are vicious apex predators, capable of generating massive amounts of fire, complex aerial displays, and stunning speed and ferocity. However, regard also the phoenix. Not nearly as bombastic, but considering it's near-infinite lifespan, it must have an astonishing amount of Spirit.

The Soul is the most mysterious of the three. It is the repository of what makes every being distinct from its fellows, and what divides savagery from sophistication: the mind. There are those in wizarding society that claim only humans have souls, but they fail at the most basic level to explain _why._ They claim humans are more intelligent, but there isn't a human born who can outsmart the dullest sphinx. They claim humans are more sophisticated, but the lowliest Gringotts teller has a better grasp of contract law than the most savvy solicitor. They cry that the gift of magic sets humanity apart and above of all other beings, but the most wretched house-elf can command magic on a massive scale, and the bigots conveniently ignore that the vast majority of humanity has no magic at all.

This brings us to the elements of performing magic. Magic can be roughly divided into three elements: Will, Power, and Focus. These three elements are present in every use of magic, though in different proportions depending on what type of magic is being used. The reader may have noticed that there are three elements of magic, just as there are three elements of being. This is not coincidental. Each element of being corresponds to, and actually has an effect on, each element of magic. The Soul corresponds with the Focus, the Body with Will, and the Spirit with Power.

Charms magic (magic that affects certain changes in probability) is strongly tied to Will. When performing a charm, the magic-user _wills_ a change in reality via the use of probability. The stronger the magic user's will, the more likely the desired outcome. Power and Focus aid the change in their own ways, and belief often helps this process, which is why wand-users are told that proper incantation pronunciation and wand movement will improve their casting. It is true, but not necessarily correct. For example, practiced wand-users can simply point their wand, focus their will, and the desired outcome will occur.

The proof of the claim that Charms magic alters probability is thus: when using insufficient will to perform a charm, wildly varied things have occurred, some of them not even close to the desired outcome. Distracted magic-users have done the following to their target object when trying to levitate it (all examples below have been witnessed by multiple beings. Citations in Appendix A):

The target object has:

Caught on fire.

Exploded.

Melted.

Began to sing.

Began to sing in a foreign language, perfectly (The magic-user in question did not speak this language).

Apparently gained life (The target object in question is currently a resident of New Zealand, though Waldo the Step-Stool is not currently available for interview).

Frozen to -272 °C.

Turned to wine.

Been replaced by a facsimile of itself, composed entirely of yarn.

Began to meow and move like a cat.

As there are infinite things that could happen at any moment (however unlikely they may be), thus there are infinite things that could go wrong with a poorly-performed Charm. Thankfully, it appears that extreme negative effects (such as the spontaneous apparition of a denizen of Hell, or the annihilation of the planet) are instinctively avoided by Magic itself.

Transfiguration magic (magic that affects _only_ the physical makeup and shape of objects) is strongly tied to Focus. Obviously some elements of Power (roughly scaled higher the larger the transfiguration) are required, or any sufficiently focussed non-magical human would be able to Transfigure like a master. In order to Transfigure, the magic-user in question must have a clear image of the desired outcome in their mind, including the size of the object and the duration of its appearance. When they decide that the target image is sufficiently detailed, they must _allow_ their magic to come forth and make the necessary changes. Note the emphasis on "allow." A being's magic will always attempt to work on behalf of that being. _[Notable in examination of powerful magic-users of history, as conflicts with less powerful magic-users nearly always go the way of the more powerful. This is an effect of probability alteration by Magic, often with bizarrely unlikely effects.]_ One simply has to allow magic to do as it will, and the desired outcome will result. Attempting to _want_ the outcome often elicits similar results as a poorly-performed charm; that is to say, nearly anything. _[Therefore Will is not of much use in this branch, though one could say one is willing one's self not to Will, as ridiculous as it sounds.]_ It is important to note that truly permanent Transfiguration is impossible, as nothing can really grasp the concept of infinity. Only through Ritual can a change be made permanent.

The last type, and possibly most poorly understood, is Ritual magic. Ritual magic is magic that can be used to change _anything_ , and is strongly tied to Power, though use of the Mind and Body ( **not** Soul and Will) is very important. Ritual magic works as follows:

 _Through use of a sacrifice, a desired effect takes place._

Obviously, it's not quite so simple as the above rule sounds, but that _is_ the general idea. The sacrifice in question must be important to the being performing the ritual, and the more important the sacrifice, the more Power required to sacrifice it. It is _**vitally**_ important that the sacrifice in question be enough to power the ritual, or the magic-user will pay a forfeit themselves, often in either pain or death. For less potent rituals, pain itself can be used as a sacrifice; or rather, the individual's _lack_ of pain can be used as a sacrifice. For example:

A magic-user in 1685 wished to turn his leather boot-laces to silk. In order to perform the ritual, he sacrificed his dinner, allegedly a chicken sandwich. Supposedly the ritual was successful, in that his leather boot-laces were silk from then on, but his sacrifice was not deemed worthy. The outcome was not pretty. His eyes were torn out and his left thumb severed. Who or what decides whether a sacrifice is worthy is not yet known.

Ritual magic has garnered a poor reputation amongst the rank and file in the last few centuries, as powerful magic-users have used it to subjugate and destroy when they go "Dark." It is a simple thing to power a ritual when one cares more for personal aggrandization than, say, one's family or children. It has been noted that some more selfless, powerful, magic-users have sacrificed parts of their very selves that they held dear in order to exact great change upon the world.

There are, naturally, other forms of magic, such as Potions, Runes, and Arithmancy. However, these forms of magic do not actually require that those who perform them have any magic at all. Magic helps, certainly, but any non-magical human can follow a recipe, carve a line from a template, or do mathematics. The potions, wards, and foretellings garnered this way are vastly less effective, but they _are_ effective to a certain point.


	2. What if Harry gave up?

What if Harry gave up during the triwizard's first task?

Harry ducked under the tent flap, and stood blinking in the sun as the audience's jeers washed over him. After Rita's article on his apparent "Dark leanings," even Hermione had abandoned him. _After everything we've done together, she believed a stranger over me._

It made sense, he supposed. No-one actually _cared_ what happened to him. Ron stood by him for as long as he could bask in Harry's reflected fame. Hermione stood by him for as long as she could use him to distract from her own bossiness and lack of social skills. Dumbledore refused to believe him when he pleaded that he was being tormented at Privet Drive, but showered affection on him in public. The rest of the wizarding world, sheep that they were, simply changed their minds according to whatever voice was loudest at the moment.

Why was he even bothering? His strides came to a sudden stop, and he fixed his gaze on a rock, frowning. No-one, anywhere, cared what happened to him. His parents, the only people who was sure had ever cared, were dead. Why should he compete in this...blood sport? If he stopped he would lose his magic, yes, but why did that matter? What had magic ever done for him? It took away his parents, caused him to grow up tormented, and isolated him ever since he could remember. He'd be better off without it. He smiled suddenly.

Harry looked up, and with a large grin, pointed his wand at his throat. " _Sonorus._ I refuse to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. I forfeit my magic. _Quietus."_ He examined his wand closely for a moment, that eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather that set him apart from normal people. _Normal people. I can be normal now._ As the assembled crowd gasped in astonished horror, Harry snapped the offending piece of wood in two, tossed it to the side, and walked back into the tent, still with a smile on his face.

Albus Dumbledore looked on in horror as the last, best hope of redemption for magical Britain turned his back on his destiny. Everything he had planned, all of his efforts… Their world was doomed now, all because a petulant child had refused to compete in a contest!

Hermione Granger looked on in stunned incomprehension as her best friend in the world turned his back everything they shared. Why had he done this? Was it her fault? She had just meant to drive home that he was no better than her, that he couldn't delve into Dark magic without consequences…

Ronald Weasley looked on in smug satisfaction. The git had finally given up. No more spotlight for Harry Bloody Potter. Maybe now other people would be able to shine every once in awhile.

Cedric Diggory, trying to ignore the smell of the paste on his arm, felt guilt roil in his belly. Potter's words had penetrated the cloth walls of the medical tent easily. Harry'd been good enough to warn him about the task, but what had he done in return? He'd ignored the harassment he'd seen the poor kid deal with, thinking that if he'd been able to deal with it two years ago, he'd be able to deal with it now. But last time he'd had the rest of the Trio. After Weasley's very public defection, and Granger's smug denouncement, Harry didn't have anybody. Cedric glanced at the Prefect's badge on his robes, and began to wonder if it really belonged there.

Fleur Delacour, ignoring a similar paste, felt tears prick her eyes. The boy had seemed so brave in the tent before, simply gazing at the dragon figurine as if he'd battled dragons hundreds of times before. She knew now that he'd simply been pushed beyond the point of no return. And she'd helped push, hadn't she? Calling him _little boy_ , breaking him down publically at every opportunity. And now he'd turned his back on everyone and everything.

Victor Krum sat quietly in a corner. Victor had known from the start that Potter had no desire to compete in the Tournament. Potter had more fame than Victor could ever hope to have. And as for the thousand-Galleon prize? Victor knew the Potter name, and was well aware that another thousand was a drop in the bucket. And now Potter had clearly had enough. Victor wondered idly if the press would respond with scorn or horror.

The Goblet of Fire, standing quiescent in the Great Hall, began to gleam. The gleam changed to a glow, then to a brilliant, fiery red. It was about to pass judgement on ...two people? The ancient artifact paused, the inhuman intelligence it was gifted with unequipped to deal with something thought impossible. After a few moments of what passed for thought, it came to a decision.

Barty Crouch Junior was bloody nervous. The Potter brat had done the unexpected, and turned his back on the Tournament, and thus the contract. Barty had no idea what would happen now. Yes, by entering the dragon enclosure, Potter had agreed to compete, thus sealing himself in the contract. That had been clear enough in the rules. But Barty had been the one to enter the brat in the first place, and that was _not_ in the rules. It was _not wise_ to fuck about with ancient artifacts like the Goblet, Barty knew, but his Master had required it. Now he'd find out what would happen when one tried to defraud a millennia-old, impossibly powerful magical object. He felt a sudden tug on his core, and paled dramatically.

Harry Potter was, astonishingly, calm. A tiny corner of his mind whispered that it wasn't a _normal_ calm, that he was in shock like the one time Vernon had broken his arm when he was eight, but Harry ignored the voice. Soon, he would be free of his magic, he could go back to Privet Drive, and Petunia and Vernon wouldn't hate him any more. He could go to school like a normal kid, and have lots of friends, and date girls, and be happy, and not have to worry about crazy people doing crazy things. He felt a sudden tug on his core, his smile broadened to a wide grin, and he began to laugh.

The audience was murmuring in confusion. Had Potter really…? He couldn't just do that, could he? He was supposed to be better than that! He was their saviour, the Boy-Who-lived! A sudden beam of red light shot out of the castle in the distance, and split in two half way. One half went into the champion's tent, and the other into the stands, where it enveloped Alastor Moody. A pair of agonized screams split the air, one of them Moody's and the other clearly Potter's.

Harry was rapidly beginning to regret his decision to give up his magic. Having your core torn away bloody _hurt_.


	3. What if the Dursleys were worse?

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; Head Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; Head of the Order of the Phoenix; Recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class; and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A powerful, enigmatic figure, whose mere suggestions were interpreted with the force of law by those he deemed worthy to serve him.

So why was he so concerned with these…. muggles? At his request, she had been dispatched to Privet Drive nearly a day before, to observe and guard the Dursley family. What she had seen was nearly enough to make her nauseated.

Petunia Dursley, the last surviving family of Lily Evans Potter, was _nothing_ like her sister. Lily was a breath of fresh air in a dead room, birdsong after rain, and could light up a mausoleum with her smile. Petunia was, if anything, the exact opposite. With a bony, horse-like face constantly scrunched up in disgust and a personality to match, her demeanour was enough to make anyone avoid her on instinct. It was a wonder that she had gotten married at all, though her husband made a likely match.

Vernon Dursley had the look of a man who had once been powerfully built, but had enjoyed the comforts of modern living for far too long. He had broad shoulders, and everything else was broad too. He was constantly red-faced, and though Minerva saw him spend much of his time laughing uproariously, she had noticed a remarkable lack of laughter from Number Four when the Dursleys were home.

Dudley (and that _name_ , good Merlin who would name a child so?) Dursley was an amalgamation of his parent's behavior. Minerva had seen more than her fair share of spoiled pure-blood princes and princesses, but none of them matched Dudley. He screamed constantly, even for normal conversation. If he wanted something, it was if someone had cast a _Sonorous_ on a Bain Sidhe. Minerva had never heard the like. Even pure-blood parents had standards of behavior for their children, and their house-elves made sure their little angels were healthy. The child was massive, as if someone had taken a normal child and _inflated_ him.

And these people were somehow related to Lily. If anyone had been paying attention, they would have noticed a tabby cat on the roof of Number Four shake its head slowly in disbelief.

At precisely 2 in the morning on November 2, 1981, that same tabby cat watched a tall figure with a long white beard and strange robes appeared with a "pop" down the street from Number Four. After rummaging in his pockets for a moment, he produced a strange device that somewhat resembled a lighter. He held it up, and thumbed the flint. At once, the light at the far end of the street went out without so much as a flicker. Again the man thumbed the flint, and again a light vanished. The man repeated the process until the street was lit only by the waxing moon above. He placed the device back in his pocket, and began to stroll down the street, humming some unnamed tune. He halted just outside Number Four, looked up into her eyes, and said quietly, "Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

The tabby cat leapt from the roof of Number Four, to garden fence, to the ground, and began to blur. Minerva appeared in its place, wearing black robes, a pointy black hat, spectacles, and an irritated expression. She approached the man and began to remonstrate with him in a furious hiss.

"Albus, what have I been _doing_ here for the last day? Why am _I_ watching these muggles? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead, the entire wizarding world is in an uproar, the Obliviators are working overtime, and I have classes to teach tomorrow!"

Albus merely gave an infuriatingly calm smile at his Deputy's ire. "Minerva, everything will be explained shortly. We are waiting for Hagrid. And I do believe you have classes to teach _today_ , as it is past midnight."

The stern witch blinked. "Albus, what does Hagrid have to do with this?"

The eccentric old wizard smiled beatifically. "I asked him to bring Harry here. He should arrive shortly."

Minerva blinked again. "You entrusted _Hagrid_ with the safe conduct of the Boy-Who-Lived? Albus, are you _INSANE?_ Hagrid is a dear, but I wouldn't trust him to pour tea without spilling it, let alone the safety of the Boy-Who-Lived! He never even took his OWLs, for Merlin's sake!"

Minerva's suddenly eyes widened when the full impact of Dumbledore's words hit her. "Albus, are you telling me that you're going to have Harry live here? With these….these _muggles?!_ "

His beatific smile hadn't diminished in the slightest, and with twinkle he replied "Oh yes, they are his last remaining family, after all. I'm sure he'll be better off growing up here, than in the wizarding world."

Minerva began to protest, but Dumbledore cut her off. "Minerva, think for a moment. If Harry is raised in a wizarding family, he will be in the public eye for the rest of his life. Imagine what effect such a life would have. From the first day he could remember, he would the most famous person in the wizarding world. Famous before he was out of nappies, for something he couldn't possibly recall. He would be given anything he wanted, and who could refuse him? He would be impossibly spoiled, and would never have a chance at a normal childhood. No, Minerva, this is the best place for him."

As Dumbledore gave his reasons, Minerva met his eyes. His tone slowly changed from the slightly dotty old man everyone knew him to be, to the hardened campaigner he once had been. Minerva could _feel_ her opinion on the matter changing, and tried to fight it. It wasn't _right!_ These people couldn't possibly raise the boy properly, they couldn't even raise their own!

However, her efforts were for naught. Albus felt a small twinge of guilt as he rewired the woman's mind and removed the memories he needed, but he smothered it roughly. He needed to do this for the Greater Good. No one but himself could know where Harry Potter was. Minerva had been reliable to him in the past, more than any of his other tools. Yet, if his most obedient servant balked at this, then no one in the wizarding world would be able to accept the necessary truth. He spent a further few moments tweaking her memories to fit what he needed, and removed himself from her mind.

Minerva, confused and slightly dizzy, shook her head. Dumbledore was smiling beatifically once again, and that thrice-bedamned twinkle was back in his eye. She met his gaze squarely, and sighed.

"I suppose you're right, Albus. After all, they seemed like nice people, and their son was well-behaved. I just hope he's not too shocked when he finds out the truth of his heritage."

Albus gave her shoulder a friendly pat. "Minerva, I'm certain it won't be a shock at all. I'll let them know what happened to the Potters, and what Harry's heritage entails. I'm sure they'll be more than happy to teach him what he needs to know."

Scene Break

Harry James Potter, aged 10, grunted as the lash bit into his back, but wouldn't give his tormentor the satisfaction of hearing his scream.


	4. What if Harry had been hiding?

Blue flames roared. Sparks flew, and wizened fingers grasped a scrap of parchment. "Harry Potter."

Every head in the Hall swiveled to stare at the Gryffindor table, and Harry was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to slam his head repeatedly into said table until this turned out to be a dream. _One year. Just one bloody year without some kind of bloody crisis would be nice._

"Harry." He glanced at the owner of the finger currently poking him in the ribs. Concerned brown eyes and bushy hair gazed back at him. "Professor Dumbledore asked you to follow the other champions." _**Other**_ _champions…?_

Harry shot a glance at the Head table, and was jolted all the way to the present by what he saw there. Madame Maxime, regal and irritated. Headmaster Karkaroff, furious, but holding it back. Ludo Bagman, confused but still, somehow, smiling. Barty Crouch, annoyed but somehow...blank?

Dumbledore, though… there was resignation in Dumbledore's face. Already. _**Other**_ _champions._ Dumbledore intended to force him to play through this garbage. His wording and expression was enough. Years of divining his often pain-filled future via Vernon's moods had rendered Harry adept at interpreting body language, though he rarely made use of the talent.

This was going to be a repeat of second year, he could tell already. Everyone was going to think he entered this bloody Tournament on purpose, no matter what he said. And thanks to the high-profile nature of the bloody thing, the _press_ was going to be involved. He was going to have to nip some of that bullshit in the bud. _Fine. Enough bloody hiding. Enough blending in. It's time to teach these arseholes not to fuck with_ _ **Harry Bloody Potter.**_ Another poke in the ribs. He shot an irritated glance at Hermione. "I get it, Hermione. I just have something to do first."

Harry got to his feet, then vaulted onto the table, accidentally kicking his goblet of pumpkin juice into Seamus' face when he got there. _Oops_. Pointing his wand at his Adam's apple, Harry muttered " _Sonorus._ While I have everyone's attention, I'd like to take this opportunity to swear upon my life and magic that I, Harry James Potter, did not enter my name into the Triwizard Tournament, I did not ask anyone to enter my name on my behalf, and I do not know who may have entered my name. So I swear, so mote it be. _Expecto Patronum."_ As the silver stag erupted from the tip of his wand, Harry took the opportunity to sneak another glance at the Head table. Reactions now could indicate allies later.

Madame Maxime, still regal, now surprised. At his casual use of an NEWT-level charm, or his oath?

Headmaster Karkaroff, inscrutable. Harry did note a slight tightening around the corners of his mouth that could be dissatisfaction. Perhaps because he didn't have a convenient scapegoat?

Ludo Bagman, still confused. Maybe gobsmacked was a better word. He didn't seem to have a whole lot upstairs.

Barty Crouch, surprised, but somehow not as much has Harry had expected. Strange.

Dumbledore… was disappointed? He was drooping like a candle in the summer sun, that stupid bloody twinkle completely absent. _Why would absolving myself of all guilt disappoint him?_

Hopping down from the table, Harry continued his impromptu speech in a voice thick with sarcasm. "As much as I hate to disappoint my fans, I'm going to have to decline to acquiesce, Headmaster. I have no desire to compete in a Tournament that was discontinued because the death toll got too high. Being a Hogwarts student is lethal enough for my taste. I'm headed to bed. _Quietus._ "

Harry had almost made it to the doors before they slammed shut with enough force to ruffle his hair. Slowing to a stop, he heaved a heavy sigh and leaned his forehead against the cool iron filigree. "Why" he said, turning slowly, "have you decided that I may not leave the Hall, Headmaster?" He gazed up at the center of the Head table, ignoring the building buzz in the Hall. The gossip mongers and press were going to have a bloody field day tomorrow.

"Harry, you must enter the room where the judges will meet with the Champions. Doing otherwise could jeopardise your magic." The twinkle was back, in full force. Merlin Harry hated that bloody twinkle.

"Let it." _There. Let 'em chew on that for a while._ The silence that fell in the Hall couldn't be described as anything but "stunned." Maybe "gobsmacked."

"Harry, what-"

"Headmaster, I'd rather be alive without my magic than dead with it. This tournament has claimed the lives of nearly a third of its competitors over the years. Those competitors were adults, with seven years of magical training behind them. I've had half that, and would rather like to see my fifteenth birthday.

"Adding to that, that only people who are of age are allowed to compete, am I correct Mr Crouch?" Startled at being called into a _very_ public disagreement between two wizarding legends, Barty Crouch could do nothing more than agree.

"Er, yes, that is-" He _harrumphed_ once, to regain his composure. "The revamped rules only allow those who have been deemed to be adults to compete. It was originally intended to make the competition less...lethal."

Switching his gaze back to the Headmaster, Harry continued. "You see Headmaster, it seems I am in somewhat of a bind. If I consent to compete, I have broken the portion of the contract Mr. Crouch has explained, and I lose my magic. If I do not consent to compete, then I break the contract in its entirety, and I lose my magic. I cannot see a way out of this without either breaking the contract or somehow becoming an adult before leaving the Hall."

"I think we can fix that!" Breaking his staring contest with Dumbledore, Harry raised an eyebrow at Ludo Bagman. Noticing his regard, Bagman went on to explain.

"Barty here and I are here as representatives of the Ministry. As such, we're empowered to make binding agreements and such. All Barty and I have to do is declare you emancipated, and you're clear to compete!"

"Ah, Ludo, I believe-" Dumbledore began, before he was overridden by Barty Crouch. "Yes, Ludo, I believe that would work nicely. Mr. Harry James Potter, you are now declared an adult in the eyes of the law of Magical Britain. As such, you may continue your education in any manner you wish, purchase property, marry, start a business, and apply for employment at the Ministry of Magic. You are now subject to the laws and penalties of Magical Britain as an adult, and do not have the protections provided to those underage. Do you understand your rights and responsibilities as they have been explained to you?"

"Now hold on just a bloody minute!" yelled Harry. "Didn't I just mention that I _don't want to compete?!_ Un-fucking-believable!"

"ENOUGH!" A cannon blast and ringing shout later, Harry had been ushered into the antechamber where the other champions were waiting. He began pacing furiously, muttering sulphurously under his breath. "Bloody...Bagman...big mouth...Crouch...arsehole…"

"Uh, Harry?" A shaking voice nudged the fourth-year out of his dark musings. "What, Cedric?" He snapped. "You're, uh, crackling. A lot. And glowing."

Harry glanced down at himself. Sure enough, his aura was showing. _Shit. Well, I did decide not to hide any more…_ He glanced over and was startled to see that the other three champions were huddled over by the wall, clearly terrified. He was rather amused to note that the French champion's hair apparently had issues with static electricity. "Get used to it." He said shortly. "If I'm going to be forced to compete in this bloody tournament, I'm going to blow it out of the fucking water. I'm done hiding. Those arseholes are going to rue the day they fucked with Harry Bloody Potter."

"Vait, this is vat you normally look like?" There was a poorly-disguised note of terror in Krum's voice, as if he'd leapt off his broom and just realized that yes, he did require it to fly. Perhaps Harry had misinterpreted the effect his aura would have on people.

"...Yes. Are you telling me you don't have to disguise it in order to blend in with the Muggles? I thought everyone did."

Cedric's eyes were wide, and closely echoed the terror present in Krum's voice. "Harry, not even Dumbledore or You-Know-Who had anything close to a visible aura except when they were doing astonishingly powerful magic. If you're putting that out without even putting in effort…"

* * *

Fleur Delacour was a powerful witch, and she knew it. She was head and shoulders above her classmates in terms of both skill and raw magical ability. She was at the top of nearly all of her classes. Only her Papa and Madame Maxime could match her in a duel, and she was on track to have her pick of Mastery programs after she graduated. She was, magically speaking, in the top 1%.

Harry Potter was currently making her feel like a bug. A small one. The waves of sheer power he was exuding were buffeting her physically and magically. A particularly strong one washed over her, and her eyes widened in shock. Her core, which she had an unusually strong bond with due to her Veela heritage, had _fluttered._ Her hands started to shake, and she moistened her lips reflexively. _This is bad._ A part of her mind decided. _This is VERY bad._

* * *

Viktor Krum was beginning to get very worried indeed. Harry Potter was a known name worldwide, though he did not have the same celebrity status on the continent as he did in Magical Britain. Still, a fifteen-month old that somehow survived the Killing Curse and defeated a Dark Lord in the same night? Taking this blatant display of power into account, these British wizards were correct to follow his actions closely.

Victor's eyes widened as some of Potter's words hit home. Circe's tits, he was going to have to compete against _this?_ He didn't have a chance. Too bad it was too late to bow out.

* * *

Cedric Diggory was near to filling his trousers. Harry Potter, the scrawny Seeker. Harry Potter, the unassuming Gryffindor. Harry Potter, who had been at the epicentre of every Hogwarts crisis since he'd been Sorted. Harry Potter, who was currently leaking enough magical power to make his every hair stand on end.

He'd heard the rumours of course. _Potter killed a teacher and got awarded points for it. Potter killed a 60-foot basilisk with a sword. Potter cast a Patronus that drove away a hundred dementors._ He'd just never thought there was any truth to them. Now, looking at what appeared to be a demi-god with glowing green eyes and lightning crackling around his fingers, Cedric found those rumours to be quite believable.

* * *

Harry was confused and irritated. This wasn't a problem for anyone else? "You're telling me that once again, I have a problem that's uniquely mine? Great. Fucking wonderful. First it's unwanted celebrity, then it's Parseltongue, then it's a mass murderer after me, now it's apparently a light show that I have to concentrate to turn off."

"Harry… None of us _can_ do that. We're not powerful enough. No-one alive is. Merlin himself could only manifest an aura for a few minutes before he tired out." He could tell Cedric was attempting to be gentle with this news, but Harry was having a hard time with the implications.

"Are you telling me that I'm supposedly more powerful than Merlin? I'm calling bullshit. Everyone knows Dumbledore's the most powerful wizard around. I'm only fourteen for Merlin's sake. I haven't even kissed a girl yet, let alone done anything worthy of being that powerful."

"So, you did not vanquish 'e-'oo-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Harry scowled in Delacour's direction. "I don't think so. I mean, what's more likely: My parents, widely regarded as some of the greatest minds in Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions in Magical Britain, came up with a one-off protection for me, or that I was immune to Voldemort's infallible signature curse that he'd used hundreds of times before?"

This bought him a moment of silence as the three digested it. After he'd said it out loud, it did seem kind of unlikely that a 15-month old could have done what he supposedly had.

"So, all that with the basilisk, and the dementors… Didn't happen?" Cedric asked tentatively.

"Wait, you heard about that? Never mind, I forgot this bloody school doesn't have any secrets." Harry groused. "Well, depending on what you heard, I guess it did."

"Vait, basilisk? Dementors?" Krum's eyes were starting to protrude from his face in a way that looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Harry here killed a 60-foot basilisk with a sword when he was twelve, and drove away a hundred dementors with a single Patronus when he was thirteen." Cedric said dryly.

"Well, I had a lot of help with the basilisk, and there were only like two dozen dementors. But otherwise that's about right." Harry concluded, with the air that his argument was bulletproof, not realizing that no-one in living memory had managed to drive away more than ten dementors at once, and the last basilisk encountered hadn't been more than fifteen feet long.

"I wonder if it's too early to forfeit."

The voice was Fleur Delacour's but the sentiment was apparently shared amongst the other 17-year-olds in the room. Harry, eyes wide and aura now extinguished, looked among the faces of his reluctant competition, and said, "Seriously?"

The door to the antechamber opened, and the judges strode in, with the interesting additions of Snape and Moody. They arranged themselves opposite the competitors, and Ludo Bagman was the first to break the silence.

"Well, isn't this interesting!" He beamed. "Four champions! And one of them the Boy-Who-Lived! It's never been done before, but I bet the press is going to eat it up, eh Barty?"

"Yes, well, this is highly irregular Ludo. Someone interfered with the selection process. The Goblet doesn't take well to interference of that kind." Barty was once again his inscrutable self. Harry was given the impression that the man would require forms filled out in triplicate to allow his underlings to use the loo.

"It's just Potter up to his usual attention-seeking again. The Brat-Who-Lived was probably worried he wouldn't get his usual quota of fan worship this term." The Potions Master's trademark sneer was firmly in place, but he didn't get to wear it for long.

" _Be silent, you greasy piece of_ _ **filth**_ _."_ The words were whispered, but they may as well have been screamed through a megaphone. Every eye in the room turned toward the youngest champion, who was taking his refusal to hide to new levels. Harry's gaze was now casting viridian light upon the head of Slytherin house, his hair was tossing in a violent breeze, and lightning was coruscating down his arms to collect around his clenched fists. Every person in the room was frozen, instincts screaming at them to _not move_ , because moving would attract the attention of the predator in the room. Every person except one.

"Harry my boy, there's no reason for language like that." Dumbledore's genial tones echoed in the room like a bilious fart. Harry's regard switched targets, and while Snape was silently thanking the Fates for Dumbledore's apparent lack of survival instincts, Dumbledore was cursing them for similar reasons.

"Oh, but I think there is, _Headmaster_." How Harry managed to pack so much disgust into three syllables was beyond them all, but Fleur made note to ask him later. Much later. Maybe through owl post. The French champion was always on the lookout for subtle or not-so-subtle ways to insult people, but she wasn't stupid enough to ask him while he was still triggering every Veela mating instinct he had. She'd end up burning his clothes off and rutting on the floor.

"That execrable excuse for a human being has made it his personal mission to make my life miserable since I was sorted." Harry spat. "I refuse to be his doormat any longer. I will no longer be attending his classes, and I refuse to acknowledge his authority as a professor. After all, professors _teach_ , they don't belittle their students for not knowing what they went to class to learn." Harry's gaze switched back to the potions professor. "Severus Snape, this is your one warning. If you address me in a derogatory manner once more, I will remove one of your fingers. Painfully. I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will be able to reattach it easily. If you do it twice more, I will remove one of your arms, permanently. Three times, and Filch will be scrubbing what is left of you off of the walls and ceiling, after I declare a formal duel. Is there an understanding between us?"

Severus may have been blinded by his hatred of James Potter, but he wasn't stupid. Stupid spies tended to have a short shelf life. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Good. You may leave. As you are not a judge nor a possible representative of law enforcement" Harry's gaze flicked over Moody, who flinched "your presence is not required. Good evening."

Severus decided that discretion was _definitely_ the better part of valor, and Harry's words had hardly been uttered before he was gone, without even his trademark billowing robes.

Igor Karkaroff was nobody's fool. He'd reached his current station by being vicious, canny, and aware of his own weaknesses. He knew he was a good duelist, a capable politician, and lacking in moral grounding. He was also quite aware that his strengths did not lie in pure power. The teenage archmage in front of him, however, seemed to be a living embodiment of magical puissance. Igor's eyes roved over the boy's robes, the floor beneath his feet, and the wall behind him. All were being slowly changed, simply through proximity to the vast power the boy was exhibiting. The stones of the wall and floor were flowing, taking on a smooth mirror sheen, much like obsidian. His robes, though they started as the standard Hogwarts wool, now appeared to be acromantula silk. Igor's facile mind began to wonder over how he might take advantage of such power.

Olympus Maxime was accustomed to being challenged. Most challenged her over her heritage, her gender, or her power. She was also accustomed to flattening such challengers with ease. Her heritage was a boon, in that it granted her vast magical power. But compared to the child in front of her, she could tell that her vaunted power would avail her naught. She'd never felt anything quite like it before, not even during the Grindelwald wars when such giants as Charlus Potter, Vincent Prewitt, and Albus Dumbledore took the field.

Albus Dumbledore was outwardly as inscrutable as ever, but inwardly he was bloody _frantic_. How had this happened? Harry was powerful, yes, that had been easily established during his third year. But he had never exhibited even a hint of guile. Certainly not enough to hide a magical core larger than anything in living history.

Ludo Bagman was confused. The lad had been chosen for one of the greatest wizarding traditions ever created. Why was he so upset? Eternal glory could be his, if he would just stop throwing this hissy fit and let them get on with it.

Barry Crouch wasn't thinking of much of anything. He was floating in a pleasant haze, readily acquiescing to the requests made of him. After all, they couldn't be that bad.

Moody was worried. Very worried. The boy was supposed to be a mediocre wizard, with the occasional flash of brilliance under pressure. The archmage in front of him threw every preconception of Potter out the window, leaving him with nothing. He had no idea what to do.

Harry's regard snapped over to the Ministry representatives. Bagman was quite pale, as was Crouch. Harry's eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze flickered between the two, flicked over to Mad-eye, and flicked back, settling on Crouch. "Hm, what do we have here…"

Every being in the room shuddered, and most for different reasons. Cedric shuddered because Harry's tone reminded him of a recurring nightmare, where he was being chased through the Forbidden Forest by a _something._ The _something_ always liked to toy with him, but Cedric never got to see what it looked like. Viktor shuddered because Potter's voice reminded him of his dueling instructor. The man was infamous in Durmstrang for his enjoyment of others pain. Fleur shuddered because not only was she being turned on by Potter's sheer power, his tone had changed to something composed of chocolate, red wine, and razor blades. It beckoned with promises of excruciating pleasure edging on pain. _If he does much more of that, I will go mad._

The instructors and Ministry officials in the room shuddered for a much different reason. They had all been witness to Voldemort's previous reign of terror. All of them had glimpsed him and heard him speak. And the child in front of them had just spoken in the same tones as that bygone monster. Naked menace and promises of torment coiled around his words.

Mad-eye Moody was the first to move. Faster than the eye could follow, his wand was in his hand, a stunner streaked across the room- And stopped. Harry turned, smiled, and said quietly, the menace still in his voice, "And the imposter finally shows his true colors. Why don't you _**take a nap**_ _."_ Moody slumped to the ground bonelessly, and the rest of the room took action. Spellfire raced through the air, the walls shattered to form massive golems, monsters composed of pure darkness pounced, and none of it could touch him. Harry stood calmly, his hands insolently in his pockets, his head cocked to the side, exuding an aura of amused tolerance as they attempted to subdue him. The spellfire halted in midair feet before it touched him, the golems dissolved into sand before they were fully formed, and the black creatures faded until they were nothing. Finally silence reigned in the room, until Harry spoke in an irritated tone.

"Now that you've all had your little temper tanty, maybe you'd like to listen _before_ jumping to conclusions?"


	5. What if the aftermath was worse?

Harry was nineteen the when he committed suicide.

He had been sitting in the parlor in Grimmauld Place, rolling his wand between his palms, glazed eyes looking past the floorboards at something only he could see. The war had been over for two years to the day, but it hadn't been worth it. Ron and Hermione hadn't survived the Last Day, along with so many others. Neville, Padma, Parvati, Colin, Dean, McGonagall, Flitwick, Hagrid, Moody, Percy, Fred, George…. It was actually easier to list the survivors, on both sides. It was a short list.  
Bill had survived, somehow, but Greyback had finished what he started. Bill liked to joke that he was "all right," but being a werewolf in the new society was hard enough with four limbs, let along two. Fleur still loved him fiercely, but she was a pale shadow of what she had been.

Ginny had come out of the Last Day… damaged. She'd been caught, isolated from the others, by Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange. She was two beds over from the Longbottoms, now.

After losing so many of their brood, Molly and Arthur had vanished, for a time. It was only after suspected blood purists had begun disappearing and reappearing horribly mangled that the whispers started. Harry hadn't known about Mrs. Weasley's career as a professional duelist, or about Mr. Weasley's time as an Operative. People were still vanishing, but they were slowing down due to a lack of applicable targets.

Luna had come from the Last Day relatively unscathed, but she was now terribly, horribly sane. She was coldly logical, and utterly without moral scruple. Those who knew her thanked the Fates daily that she had decided to keep running the Quibbler, rather than turn to a life of crime.

Lucius had somehow survived the Last Day and had purchased a pardon for himself, just as he had after the first Blood War. Everything had gone to shit after that, and now Harry couldn't see any reason to stick around. Muggleborns had their magic bound after it was first detected. Half-bloods were forced to register with the Ministry, even "heroes of the Light." His number was HJP073180. His entire being, distilled down to initials and birthdate.

Harry had sat there for more than an hour, the faint susurrus of traffic and the rubbing of his palms on holly the only sound. Hestilled, suddenly, and said, "Kreacher."

The elf appeared with his customary "Pop" and bowed low. "Your will, Lord Black?"

"Bring me a quill and parchment. The good stuff."

Another bow and two pops later, a peacock quill and a sheet of creamy vellum sat before him, as well as his best ink and the sealing wax. Harry dipped his pen, and wrote. He finished a scant three minutes later, blotted the words, and examined the result critically. He gave a small nod, folded the parchment, and called for Kreacher again.

Kreacher bowed low, again. "Your will, Lord Black?"

"In two hours, take this to the Quibbler. After you have done that, take my vault key to Andromeda Tonks. After I am dead, you will serve her as loyally as you can for the rest of your life, because she is the last Black that is worth the name. Do you understand me?"

Kreacher hesitated for a moment. "Yes, Lord Black. Can...can Kreacher ask a question?"

Harry blinked in surprise. After the destruction of Slytherin's locket, Kreacher had been the ideal house-elf. Quiet, diffident, respectful, and hardworking. He had never laid so much as a finger out of line, and now he was questioning his master? "Speak."

"Master, what are you going to do?"

Harry's mouth firmed for a moment. He couldn't afford to have any loose cannons trying to stop what he was going to do. He was going to have to lay down the law. Hermione was going to be screaming at him from beyond the Veil, to be sure. "My plans are none of your business, elf. Go about your tasks. I'm sure you can find something in this cesspit to clean."

Kreacher cringed as though waiting for a blow to fall, and popped away. Harry crushed his guilt ruthlessly. In a little bit, it won't even matter. He stood, focussed on his destination, and turned on the spot. He would never return to Grimmauld Place.

He reappeared soundlessly in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. He passed the security checks, baring his left forearm for the guard to scan his registry number. He took the elevator down to the ninth level. He stepped out of the elevator, and smiled at the receptionist.

"Mr. Potter." The receptionist was a gorgeous blonde woman, with an icy stare. She wore a blue robe with short sleeves, and Harry could see the Dark Mark on her left forearm. Evidence had arisen after the War that one could not take the Mark unwillingly, but it had been buried under a mountain of bureaucratic garbage. She was guilty as sin, as guilty as all the rest of them. Harry's smile grew larger, and slightly manic. The receptionist's eyes widened, panic beginning to crest in her expression, but she was too late. Harry raised his wand, and began to destroy the Ministry of Magic.

"Gehénnam." Fiendfyre.

Kingsley Shacklebolt stared gobsmacked at the smoking, glowing hole in the middle of London, and then stared horrified at the headline of the Daily Prophet.  
POTTER SPEAKS OUT AGAINST MINISTRY, COMMITS SUICIDE

My name is Harry Potter, and I am dead.

I was eleven when I learned of my place in the Magical World. I came to love our world, despite all the things wrong with it. I made wonderful friends, terrible enemies, and had marvellous adventures.

But now, the stink of rot and grease of corruption covers everything in our world. Murderers and bigots control our government. Everything I fought, killed, and yes, died for has been forgotten.

I refuse to live in this world any longer. As you read this, I will have gone to the Ministry of Magic, and utterly destroyed it. Do not try to find me, because I don't intend to survive.

Hopefully, I'll take the corrupt bastards with me.

Lord Harry James Potter-Black


	6. Balance

Harry sat in Dumbledore's office, calmly matching gazes with the nonplussed old mage. It wasn't silent, far from it. Instruments whirred, smoke puffed, and Fawkes snored adorably, his head hidden beneath his wing. But Dumbledore's bewildered mien generated it's own silence, a stupefied absence of sound that could only be broken by the speech of he who engendered it.

"Balance, you said?"

"Yes, Headmaster, balance. You've spent the last fifty-odd years of your life and influence attempting to stamp every last trace of Darkness out. Thing is, the world, Mother Nature, the Powers That Be, whatever you want to call it: it, or they, crave balance above all things."

Harry pulled his wand out, and conjured a piece of parchment, a quill, and ink. He dipped the quill, but instead of writing, he spattered the parchment with ink. Again and again, until the sheet was evenly covered with dots of ink.

"Imagine for a moment that this parchment represents the magical energies of Great Britain. The ink, Dark magic. The clean parchment, Light magic. With me so far?" Albus nodded, slowly.

"Right, so imagine you're a massively powerful, incredibly skilled, Light wizard. Your childhood and formative years were tainted by Darkness, and it was terrible. You resolve to yourself to never let anyone go through what you did, no matter the cost. So, you begin using your influence to remove Dark influences from society, one by one."

Harry began to poke at individual dots of ink with his wand. Every dot that he poked would swirl briefly, and disappear. Harry kept poking dots, and began speaking again.

"Thirty years go by, and you've made excellent progress removing the Dark taint from society. The average witch and wizard on the street find Dark magic repugnant, and Dark magic is tightly controlled. However, you're finding that it's getting more difficult to attack the Darkness in any way, it's just more...resistant."

Harry tilted the parchment back toward Dumbledore, and the venerable wizard's eyes widened. There were many fewer dots of ink, but the few that were left… They were so dark that they seemed to absorb the light into themselves, and they were huge. He lifted his gaze back to his student's eyes, and found his student looking back at him sadly.

"Headmaster, the world craves balance. If there is too much Light, it becomes widespread, diluted, and weak. If there is too little Darkness, it becomes concentrated, focussed, and malignant. Just like on this parchment, you systematically removed every place the Darkness had used to thrive. It didn't vanish though; it merely fled, and moved to another place."

Here, Albus spoke up for the first time. "Harry my boy, your theory is quite solid, but fatally flawed. If it were true, then we would be seeing these 'nexuses of Darkness' all over the world." Here Harry shook his head, adamant.

"Headmaster, water blocks magic, just like in all the old tales. It's why international Apparition is so difficult. Great Britain is an island."


	7. Powerful First Year

"Ah, mister Potter. I was wondering when you were going to come into my shop."

Harry spun around in mild panic. Nobody had been able to sneak up on him like that in a while. Dudley had been fond of punching him in the back of the head by surprise, and Harry had developed excellent situational awareness as a result. Of course, it had been a few years since that had been a problem, but he'd been keeping the skill fresh, just in case.

Harry looked up at the, well, he didn't want to say creepy old man, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Flyaway white hair, glowing silvery eyes, and a nearly skeletal build? Definitely creepy.

With a start, Harry realized he'd been staring. "Sorry, sir. I'm pleased to meet you. How did you know who I am?" He stuck out his hand to shake, and looked into the man's eyes.

The old man, ignoring his hand entirely, replied "Garrick Ollivander, mister Potter. You'll find that nearly everybody in our world will know who you are almost immediately. As I'm sure you've surmised, you are quite the celebrity."

In a sudden swirl of motion, the man seemed to flicker over to the other side of the shop, and was halfway up a ladder grabbing a box before Harry managed to lay eyes on him again. Harry was beginning to get both irritated and nervous, and wasn't quite sure how to respond to the old man. "I'm, I'm here for a wand, sir. How do I get one?"

Ollivander paused in the midst of stacking five or so boxes on the counter in front of Harry. "It's not so much about choosing a wand, mister Potter. The wand chooses the wizard, after all. Each wand is the result of a careful melding of uniquely magical elements, and is very nearly self-aware. A properly matched wand will last your your entire life. As for how they're selected, well. I'll give you a wand, you'll give it a wave, and we'll see what happens." He winked at the young man. "This is always my favorite part of the year. I'm always surprised by what happens. Once a young wizard actually brought my favorite footstool to life! We still write, but his penmanship is horrendous. The footstool's penmanship, not the wizard's."

Harry was certain. This was definitely the weirdest person he'd ever met.

Ollivander clapped his hands. "Here we go! Our first try, beechwood and dragon heartstring, 9 inches, nice and flexible. Grab it and give it a wave, why don't you?"

Harry reached for the stick, grasped the handle, and nearly dropped it as it gave a loud "POP" and vibrated in his hand. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the end. He felt a slightly hysterical urge to giggle as he looked at the wand. The end reminded him of what happened to Elmer Fudd's gun when Bugs Bunny blocked it with a carrot.

"What." Harry glanced up at the old man, and saw him gaping at the wand in surprise. He looked just as surprised as Harry was. Ollivander snatched it from his hands, and glared down into the blown-out end. "You...you vaporised it! How the blazes did you do that? That's not...oh. Oh my yes. This is unprecedented."

Ollivander looked at Harry again, but this time Harry felt like a bug on a pin. Like the old man was looking at him right down to his soul, and seeing everything he'd ever done. "Mister Potter, this may seem like a very strange question, but do you ever...glow?"

Harry started, and stared. How had he known? "Yeah, sometimes. I used to do it all the time, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon made me stop. They said that normal people never glowed, and that I wasn't allowed."

Ollivander then did a very strange thing. He laughed, jumped into the air, and knocked his heels together. "Oh, this will be so much FUN! I haven't had an opportunity like this in years! Come, mister Potter, follow me."

The wandcrafter scuttled to the front of the shop, and turned his sign to CLOSED. He then made a beeline for the back, through the door marked 'Employees Only.' "Come along mister Potter, let's make you a staff!"


	8. The Psycho in The Box

A streak of purple flame flicked through the air, and struck Hermione across the chest. She let out a little "oh!" of surprise, as if discovering something interesting in one of those massive tomes of hers. She then fell, and to Harry it seemed as if she fell forever.

 _She's hurt. Maybe dead. And it's because of me._

Hermione's expression was beginning to change from intent to relaxed, that small line between her eyebrows smoothing out. Her hair was fluttering up past her jawline, obscuring her face; Harry felt an absurd urge to tuck it back behind her ear like she always did while she was reading.

Harry realised then something that he should have realised years ago. Hermione meant more to him than anyone else alive. He would do anything, no matter how horrific, if it meant she was happy. And now, she was hurt, because of him. It was time to cross every line he had left, if only to make sure she survived his mistake. It was time to let Azathoth out of The Box.

 **You sure about this mate? You know what I'm gonna do. You know that it won't stay hidden for long.**

 _Yeah. If she's hurt permanently because of me, then it won't matter. And if she recovers and stays happy and healthy, it won't matter. And if she hates me forever, it won't matter as long as she's okay. Do whatever you need to, whatever you_ want _to, as long as she makes it out of this okay._

 **Harry mate, you just made my fuckin' year. Go to sleep, I'll make sure she's okay.**

 _Alright. One word of warning, Azathoth. If she's not okay when I wake back up, then we're both going to die._

 **I understand mate. I'm part of you, after all. Life ain't gonna be worth living if she ain't in it.**

For the first time in three years, Azathoth looked out of Harry's eyes. One Death Eater on the floor, arms and legs stuck together. One in front of him, sneering down at Neville through his mask. The Death Eater kicked out at Neville, and managed to break both Neville's nose and his wand at the same time.

 _Well, time to have some FUN._

A silent blasting curse re-decorated the wall with Death Eater brains. Neville was swearing a blue streak through teary eyes, and glanced up in time to see the _fucker_ that hurt Hermione crumple to the floor, sans head. Poor bloke looked like he was gonna puke. Azathoth strode over to Hermione's fallen form, tossing an " _Episkey!"_ at Neville on the way. Some fresh swearing let him know the healing spell worked. He placed a couple fingers at her pulse point, and another under her nose.

 _Thank FUCK._ Strong heartbeat and steady breathing. Azathoth didn't know what this curse did, but it looked like Hermione was going to be okay for the time being. He stood back up, and turned to look at Neville. "Right Longbottom, listen up. I gotta lot to explain, and not a lotta time to do it in. I say my piece, you get to ask a few questions, then we get moving. Capice?"

The Longbottom kid looked confused, but his eyes were clear and his hands weren't _too_ shaky. "Riiight. Who are you, and what did you do to Harry?"

"That's what I'm gonna explain. You know some o' the shit that Harry got up ta, right? Killin' giant snakes, duelin' the Dark Lord, et cet'ra? Figures that someone capable o' that kinda shite would have bloody great brass ones, right? You ever wonder why he seemed so _passive_ the rest o' the time? Like he was a completely different bloke when shite hit the fan?"

The Longbottom kid was no idiot, Azathoth knew. Through his explanation, the Gryffindor's expression went from confused, to thoughtful, to worried, to resigned. "Yeah. You're a mental construct, aren't you? All of Harry's aggression, his rage? I always wondered how Malfoy managed to survive the year."

Azathoth laughed. "Right in one. Always knew you were a clever bloke. See, Harry just figgered out that Hermione there" his voice softened when he said her name, and he was certain to pronounce it with the greatest of care "was the best, most wonnerful thing in his life. And THESE FUCKS _HURT HER!"_

Azathoth's voice rose to a nigh-unto bestial roar, and he punctuated his statement with a vicious kick at the paralyzed Death Eater's ribs. He kicked again, and again, each kick accompanied with a loud _crunch_ as bones broke and shattered. Azathoth knelt, and flipped the Death Eater over. The terrorist was aspirating blood, and his every inhale was a desperate wheeze. Azathoth placed one hand on the Death Eater's throat, and made a pinching, twisting motion. There was a quiet "pop" and suddenly the Death Eater began choking. He soon stopped, and there was silence in the room.

"So." Azathoth stood, and was somehow the terrifying thing Neville had ever seen. "I'm gonna let loose on these fucks. None of 'em are gonna leave here alive. You gotta problem with that? Gonna gimme some shit about 'a fair trial'?"

Neville grinned suddenly, unaware that his teeth were coated in blood. Azathoth reflected that Neville would be a scary fucker one day, because that was one creepy-ass grin. "Good hunting. Oh, and what's your name?"

Azathoth grinned back. "Name's Azathoth. Not sure where I got it from, but it just...fits. Y'know?"

Azathoth padded silently down a dark corridor, ears perked for the slightest hint of sound. He was disillusioned, but was wasn't silenced. Something about a silencing field messed with the local acoustics, made it harder to hear people getting close. He'd been briefly surprised by some bloke with a bloody nose when he'd had his feet silenced. "Must have been the arsehole Harry elbowed right at the get-go. Well, won't need to do that again." Said arsehole was lying in some other passageway, in two pieces, and Azathoth had learned a valuable lesson. No silencing fields.

Azathoth heard voices, and immediately flattened himself against a wall. He took several deep breaths, and then let out all of his air. It was much harder to see a disillusioned person when they weren't breathing.

"I'm tellin' you Crabbe, somfin's wrong."

 _Grunt._

"Mulciber wuz cut in 'alf. Ain't nunna those schoolkids coulda dun that. They's not good enough."

 _Grunt._

"Someone else must be in 'ere wif us. Mebbe one o' those Unspeakables."

 _Grunt._

As the mentally stunted duo passed by, Azathoth reflected that even a broken clock was right twice a day.

 _A/N:_

 _I've always thought that, given sufficient motivation, anyone could be capable of anything, morally speaking. I know that personally if anyone ever threatened someone I hold dear, I'd probably go absolutely berserk. This is partially a story about that, and partially a story about a young man who was so scared he'd up up being a violent person that he hid that part of himself away, until it developed a personality of it's own. In this case, Harry worst action here was letting Azathoth out of The Box, which Harry considers to be an action of last resort. To Azathoth, his actions here are just the kind of thing he'd do on the average Tuesday._


	9. Self-Insert

_A/N: So, I wrote this entire thing in one go, with very little proofreading. Please be gentle._

I woke up to the sound of an explosion. I rolled out of bed and onto my feet, heading to my dresser to at least cover my dangly bits before I went to see what the matter was. Or at least, that was my plan. Instead of rolling out of bed, I just sort of rolled across the ground, which was exceedingly hard. I was already fully clothed, minus shoes, though the clothes didn't fit too well. I was also extremely clumsy, as none of my limbs seemed to work correctly. _Did I get drunk last night? Am I still drunk?_ I'm not much of a drinker, but I do tend to over-indulge on occasion.

I stood, wobbling slightly. _Huh, brain seems to be working fine. Maybe I'm just buzzed. But I can't stand properly?_ Everything was blurry, and I cast about with a squint, looking for my glasses. A child's voice squeaked nearby, "Where's the cannon?" _What the fuck? Why is there a kid here? And why's he got an accent? Fuck this is confusing._

An obviously overweight blur came out of a previously unseen room holding a blurry something, and shouted "I warn you - I'm armed!" _Who's that? Is that a rifle?_ I started to swear under my breath. There's some fairly rigorous research that supports the idea that swearing helps reduce stress and pain, and I was certainly beginning to feel stressed. I _hate_ not knowing what's going on. No one could hear me, thanks to the storm outside. _Wait, a storm in the Valley in July?_

There was one more titanic "boom" before a door I hadn't previously seen exploded out of the wall and fell to the floor. _A police raid?_ In the doorway was a man who nearly filled the gap. He was about twice as tall as a normal man, and nearly three times as broad. He stepped inside, picked up the door, and set it in its previous position. He then turned to address the room. "Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..."

Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait. Storm outside. "Where's the cannon?" Fat guy with a gun. Giant dude who broke the door down. British accents. I smiled. I'd solved the mystery. I was hallucinating, or having a lucid dream. Preferably the latter. Because there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I'd been _(heh)_ magically transported into Harry Potter's body, on his eleventh birthday.

* * *

I cast about, not for my glasses, but for Harry Potter's glasses. There, on the floor. I picked them up, put them on, and made a _moue_ of dissatisfaction. His prescription was even worse than mine and these glasses weren't good enough to cover it. I then looked around and took stock.

The fat man against the wall with the gun was obviously Vernon Dursley. The bony-looking woman hiding behind him (with a fantastic rate of success) was Petunia. I looked around for Dudley and _holy shit_ that kid is fat. I then glanced up at who had to be Rubeus Hagrid. Yup, giant beard, tiny eyes, voluminous coat, the works. I then took a deep breath, and looked at myself.

Hands first. No hair anywhere, but considering that I'm in my late twenties and Harry's eleven, that's not terribly surprising. What _was_ surprising was the sheer amount of burns, scars, and calluses on the kid's hands. That was actually kind of creepy. I'm not the most creative type, and this kind of elaborate dream is usually beyond me. I pinched my arm (Harry's arm?), hard, and failed to wake up. Definitely felt the pain though. Well, that didn't work. I tried snapping my fingers, saying "Change dream!", and even closing my eyes and tapping my heels together. Nothing. I was starting to worry. I looked up, and was taken aback by everyone staring at me like I'd gone insane.

"What?"

"Have you gone mad, boy?" asked Vernon, with a kind of incredulous disbelief.

I sighed slightly, and responded "I think I might have." Clearly, not the response he expected. Explanation time.

"Well, I thought I was dreaming at first. This is way too weird to be real life. So, I started looking at details to snap myself out of the dream. But everything's internally consistent, so that didn't work. Then I went for the pain route, and pinched myself. I felt pain, but didn't wake up. So that didn't work. I'll admit that I was kinda grasping for straws after that, what with the snapping and tapping my heels together. But the end result is, I'm not dreaming. So, I must be hallucinating. Ergo, I might have gone mad." This had everyone in the room gaping slightly. Oh, right. Eleven-year old child. Not twenty-eight year old man with an interest in science and rationality.

Dudley spoke up then, with a remarkably germane and, to me, dangerous question. "Why do you sound like a Yank?"

I had a decision to make. I could either play along with the delusion, and risk my sanity and entire identity. Or, I could try and blow the entire thing up from the inside out by acknowledging that it definitely was a hallucination and revealing my identity to everyone. Yeeah, I'd rather not be crazy, thanks.

"Probably because I am one, kid." I turned to the rest of the room at large, and proceeded to explain who I was. "Hey everyone. You can call me Donovan. I'm apparently hallucinating right now, because in reality I'm a twenty-eight year old from California in twenty-seventeen. None of this is real. Where I'm from, you are all fictional characters from a children's story written by a depressed housewife."

More gaping. Hm. "Well, I might as well play along for now, at least until the nice men in the white coats come to take me away. So." I turned to Hagrid. "Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Ground at Hogwarts, right? Pleasure to meet you." I stuck out my hand, and gave my "meeting new people" smile.

"Now wait just a bloody minute!" Vernon blustered. "How did you know about that bloody school? We never told you a damned thing about all that freakishness!"

"Vernon, remember what I _just said_ about the children's story? I read those books when I was a kid. They're really good books, second-best selling books of all time, actually. Hogwarts and magic are a huuuge part of the story. I know the reason you took Harry in, how his parents actually died, how he got his scar, all of it." I thought that my use of logic here was actually kind of impressive, but everyone was staring at me again. It was actually getting pretty irritating. How could I wake up from this?

"Righ', well Harry, all sorts o' great wizards are mad, you're just startin' early then." I blinked in surprise, and addressed the half-giant in the room.

"Hagrid, I'm not Harry Potter. I'm Donovan, remember? I already introduced myself. This is all a hallucination." I explained slowly. I knew Hagrid was a bit slow on the uptake, but this was a bit much.

"You also said you were gonna play along, righ'?" "Good point." I admitted. "All right then, call me Harry I guess. Let's get this show on the road. You've got a cake for me, right?"

"How- Oh. Righ', you know everythin' Yeah, I think I sat on it a bit at one poin', but it should be good."

Petunia spoke up then, with a tone that could only be described as waspish. "Dudley, don't you eat a thing he gives you."

Hagrid laughed a bit. "Lad's already fat enough, don'cha think Dursley?"

I decided to speak up here. No reason to leave my morals behind, even if this was a hallucination. "Hagrid, that was rude. You should apologise." I gave him my best "stern look." After he shamefacedly mumbled something that could be construed as an apology, I said, "He does have a point, however. Vernon, Petunia, obesity can lead to a wealth of health problems, not just heart disease, but joint and back problems too. If Dudley doesn't do something about his weight, he won't be able to do sports, and girls won't want to date him when he gets older. Dudley." I addressed the child in question. He didn't seem to be as dim as portrayed in the books. Maybe I'd get through to him. "Have you ever seen boxing on TV? I mean, on the telly?"

He got excited, then. He was actually kinda cute, for a butterball of a kid. "Yeah! I think Eubanks has a shot at the middleweight title this year, don't you?"

I smiled a bit. "I don't really know enough about boxing to tell you, but I know you'll like doing it. But Dudley, you know how boxers have to fit in a weight class? You'll never be able to do that if you just eat whatever you want all the time. You should ask your school nurse about a diet, so that if you want to do sports in the future, you won't have to lose a lot of weight all at once. That's not healthy either, and it's hard to do. It's easier to lose a little bit at a time, while you're younger, and stay fit while you're young. Am I right, Vernon?"

Vernon was startled that I'd asked his opinion, given that he'd been swelling up for a while like he was going to start shouting. "What the ruddy hell are you talking about boy?"

"Well, you look like you used to be in great shape. Office jobs take their toll over time, but I bet you were a holy terror in a boxing ring back in the day. Wasn't it easier back in university and secondary school to stay in shape?"

"I never boxed." Said Vernon absently. "Rugby was more my speed. I liked working with the team. But yes, it was easier, now you mention it. I could eat whatever I liked while I was still playing, and I'd never gain weight."

"See what I mean Dudley? If you eat a little less, and exercise a bit more, you'll be in great shape in no time. And it's not like you have to go to the gym and eat nothing but salad, just play some football with your friends or bike around town, and have more vegetables and less sweets. It's all good fun, and good exercise." Now everyone was staring at me again. It was really starting to get irritating.

"Why are you being so nice? We treated you like a freak." Petunia asked. Her expression was a study. Shame, curiosity and even a little fear. I think. They really were shitty glasses.

"Petunia, you haven't done anything to _me_ yet. _We_ just met. Now you might have treated _Harry_ poorly, but I've already established that I'm not Harry. So as far as I'm concerned, you all and I have a blank slate." I had a gentle smile at first, but I think my face blanked next. "However, I _do_ know what you did to Harry. And it was reprehensible. Whether or not he was magical he was still a _child._ He was utterly blameless for what happened to anyone, and you treated him like garbage. Tell me, if Child Protective Services, or whatever the British equivalent is, came to your home, what would they find in the cupboard under the stairs? If they interviewed Harry, and he answered the questions honestly, would you or would you not be arrested and tried for child abuse?" I let my voice drop a bit. "If it had been you that died and Lily lived, do you think she would have treated Dudley like you treated Harry?"

Petunia seemed ashamed of herself, and at my last statement she started to sniffle, turned away and buried her face in her hands. I hated making women cry, but the phrase "tough love" seemed to apply here. She had been completely in the wrong to treat Harry the way she had, and she knew it. Vernon was at a loss, and though I knew he was furious at me, he couldn't decide whether to castigate me or comfort his wife. I made eye contact with him, and gestured at Petunia as if to say "Give her a hug, moron." He got the gist, I think.

I took a deep breath, and said "Right. I think I've disrupted your lives enough. Hagrid, is Gringott's open right now?"

He looked confused, and responded with a slow "Yeh, but we shouldn't leave just yet, it's the middle of the night."

"Hagrid, look at them." I gestured at the Dursleys, who'd had their nice quiet lives utterly shredded in the last week. "They need some time to come to grips with what happened tonight. Let's just head to Gringott's, I'll make a withdrawal, and we'll get a couple rooms at the Leaky Cauldron. I'm sure Tom won't mind putting us up. Then in the morning we'll get my school things."

"Yeh, you're righ'. I'm sorry 'bout the door, folks. I'll just take Harry here and leave." And so began my hallucinatory life as Harry James Potter.

* * *

I hadn't realised the main issue with being in an eleven-year-old body until I tried to really use it. I was _small_. I was _weak_. More than that, all of my bodily proportions were off, and I haven't even gone through puberty yet. Consequently, I was extraordinarily clumsy for a good long while. At least I didn't need the Talk.

As I staggered my way down to the boat that took the Dursleys and Harry to this wretched little island, I was wracking my brains as to what was going to happen next. Hagrid said he flew here, but how were we getting to Diagon? Was it a Portkey or the Knight Bus? It wasn't Floo or Apparition, I knew that much. Wait, if he flew here, why were we taking the boat?

"Hagrid, you flew here, right?"

"Yeh. Why?"

"If you flew here, why are we taking the boat back?"

"Well, I'm not suppos' to use magic now I've got ya."

"Why not?"

"Well, I got expelled from Hogwarts in me third year, so I'm no' allowed."

"Oh, right, you got framed by Riddle. Well, I won't tell if you won't."

Hagrid turned and stared at me, his mouth agape. "'Ow did you know tha'?"

I sighed, just a little, and said, "Hagrid, you're fictional, remember? I know pretty much everything that's going to happen in the next seven years, so long as I don't… change… Shit."

"'Arry, watch your language!"

"I'm twenty-eight, Hagrid. Deal with it." I had more important things on my mind. I was basically in a self-insert fanfiction, wasn't I? And I had no idea what I was going to do. The cat was already out of the bag as regards to my identity, because Hagrid couldn't keep a secret to save his life and I didn't know how to modify memories. He was definitely going to go straight to Dumbledore with that information. And I had no idea what kind of person Dumbledore was. What could I do?

Okay. I needed to know more about the society I was in. Was it pureblood dominated by economic might, or inherited political power? Were the children at Hogwarts realistic eleven-year-olds, or were they canny political opponents? Was Dumbledore A: a kindly old man with Harry's best interests at heart, B: a chessmaster doing what he had to in order to preserve Wizarding Britain, or C: an evil bastard posing as option A? I needed to do research. Wait, did I?

As Hagrid removed a truly massive broomstick from one of his pockets (figures, I didn't think a run-of-the-mill Cleansweep would be able to lift him) I had another decision to make. Since everything around me was affecting me as if it were real (and the realism of the situation was really starting to bother me. The sea breeze felt authentic, I could smell the brine, there was something in my shoe, and there were entirely too many scratches on my glasses), I didn't really have a choice but to proceed as if it actually were real. Or... I smiled. Like a video game. No saves, on Hardcore mode. And I was going to munchkin the shit out of it. All those exploits, plot holes, and plain 'ol fantastic things about the Wizarding World of Harry Potter were mine to take advantage of, as I saw fit.

But, if I screwed up, if I died… What was going to happen to Harry? I couldn't afford to let that happen. Even if I fucked up and suffered, I don't know what was going on with Harry himself. For all I knew, he was riding shotgun in his own head, unable to control his own body. Assuming, of course, this was all a hallucination. God, I hope it was a hallucination. But, just in case…

"Harry." I spoke softly, having clambered onto the broom behind Hagrid and holding on for dear life. Hopefully the wind and rain would drown out my words. "If you're in there, kid, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure you have a charmed life. I'm not sure if this is even real, but if it is and I end up leaving your body, I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that the Second Blood War never even starts. You'll be able to play pro Quidditch or be an Auror or whatever you want, with just a minor case of famousness to deal with. I just need to do some research first."

So. To start with. I knew that there was going to be an attempted robbery of the vault the Stone was in. 713, if I remembered correctly. And Harry's trust vault was 687. Hm, if he had access to more vaults, I could munchkin my way into way more power, but the money wasn't mine. So I needed to first make a way to make money. I grinned, knowing that celebrity endorsements were lucrative in the extreme, and you didn't get much more famous than Harry James Potter.

We finally touched down on the side of a deserted stretch of highway, and Hagrid gently pushed me back. "I'm callin' the Knight Bus, best stay back." I took a couple healthy strides back, having a good idea of how the Knight Bus operated. It was a good thing I didn't get motion sick. Or, that Harry didn't get motion sick. Now that was an interesting question. Was it the mind or the body that mattered more with autonomic responses? Harry didn't have a fear of heights, but I did, and the broom ride bothered me less for the height, than for the possibility of being drenched in freezing water if I fell off.

In the moonlight, in the pouring rain Hagrid held out his umbrella/wand and waited. There was a loud BANG that managed to make me jump, even though I was expecting it, and there the Knight Bus was. The doors opened, and out stepped Stan Shunpike, if I remembered right. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I'll be your conductor for this evening."

"'Ello Stan, two for Diagon. With some 'ot chocolate, please, it's beastly out."

"'Ello 'Agrid, tha'll be one galleon, thirteen sickles. 'An oo's this?"

This was it. This would determine how I would approach the wizarding public for the rest of my time here. I did my "meeting people" smile again, and extended my hand. "Pleasure to meet you Mr. Shunpike. I'm Harry Potter." I did what I could to imitate a British accent, but I needed more exposure to mimic it properly. Best keep it quiet for now. Polite, soft spoken, intelligent. That was what I was going for.

Stan's reaction was pure gold. His eyes bugged out, his jaw dropped, and his gaze glued itself to the scar on my forehead. "Well I'll be buggered! It really is you! 'Ere, Ern, take a look at this, it's 'Arry Potter!"

I remembered the driver's first name, but not the second. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr.-?"

"Prang." Ah. A man of few words. "Get in." And apparently not a night owl.

"Righ', let's get you settled." A few moments of bustling later, and Hagrid and I had our mugs of steaming chocolate, and were settled. I braced myself a bit, and had a moment of panic when I realised I was holding an open container of very hot liquid on what was basically a roller coaster. I was about to set it down when the bus "banged" into motion, and I squeezed my eyes shut in preparation for a scalding.

Nothing.

I opened my eyes, and glanced at my mug. The liquid inside was sloshing about as you'd imagine it would, but it never splashed past the upper rim. It was as if it were covered by an invisible membrane. I cautiously tipped it sideways, then entirely upside down. Still contained. I started to grin. Magic was _cool._


	10. Treatment

_A/N: I've seen a few fics where post-final battle, Harry is indentured into a sort of slavery bond with Snape, to fix his PTSD. I always found it strange where instead of fighting his circumstances tooth and nail, he always sort of spinelessly acquiesces. This is an exploration of what would happen if Harry had a spine_. _Note also that this is obviously AU, as both Dumbledore and Snape are still alive._

 _I wrote this all in one go with almost no proofreading, so please be gentle. I encourage you all to review. I'm always looking for more feedback._

"You mean to say," Harry said slowly, tonelessly, "that you are essentially enslaving me to a man who has dedicated his life to make my experience at Hogwarts a living hell. Me. The hero of the wizarding Britain. The man who fought, killed, and died for you. All because of some trumped-up 'concern' for my well-being."

"No, Harry." Dumbledore said calmly, that stupid twinkle absent for once. "We're indenturing you to Severus in order to make sure that you are treated properly. We all care about you, and we want you to be well."

"Really? Where was that bloody 'care' when I was fifteen months old? Where was it when Vernon broke my arm when I was five, when Petunia knocked me out with a frying pan when I was eight ,when Dudley beat me until I pissed blood when I was ten? You know, Albus, your 'care' reminds me an awful lot of Tom's torture."

"Insolent boy!" Harry had never seen Snape quite as pissed as he was now, but finally speaking his mind without fear of repercussions was worth it. "You will not speak ill of your betters!"

"No, you're right, I won't. But considering that none of my 'betters' are in this room with me, I can speak how I like!" Both Dumbledore and Snape were taken aback by this, it seemed. Fuck it. He was done pretending to be a meek little piece of cannon fodder.

"Whatever. Take me to my new prison, _master._ Might as well start my next period as a house-elf impersonator right away."

"Harry, I believe you have the wrong idea about the reasons for your indenture. Professor Snape is simply going to ensure that you will receive the treatment you need. I'm certain that he would never dream of abusing your trust."

"Albus, my trust was never a factor in whatever decision you made about this. And besides, with Snape's track record of making my life miserable, I'm sure it'll take less than a day before he has me scrubbing his floor on my hands and knees." Harry sighed. "Whatever, you don't believe me and I don't believe you. Do your worst."

Dumbledore and Snape turned and began to walk from the room. After a short while down the hallway, Dumbledore noticed that Harry wasn't with them. Sighing, he tapped his colleague's shoulder, and said "Severus, I fear young Harry is going to be difficult about this. He's not coming."

Snape snarled, and whipped around, robes billowing. He stormed into the hospital room, and snapped "Potter, get your things and come with me. We're leaving." As he turned on his heel, he heard Harry say, in a tone reminiscent of Frankenstein's lackey, " _Yes master."_ Snape had a bad feeling about this.

* * *

After checking Harry out of St. Mungo's they flooed to the Headmaster's office. After they'd all dusted themselves off, Dumbledore went behind his desk, and pulled out a small box, about a foot and a half long and three inches square. "Harry, you broke your old wand when you decided to leave the wizarding world. We here at Hogwarts decided to gift you a custom-made replacement, complete with a tail feather from Fawkes. We hope that you will accept this gift, as a token of our thanks."

Harry hesitantly reached out and accepted the wand, a fountain of gold and blue sparks erupting from the tip, accompanied by phoenix song. The office was silent for a moment, the beauty of the song smoothing ruffled feelings, and even Snape's sneer seemed a little less vicious. Then Harry's grip tightened, he snapped the wand cleanly in two, and tossed the halves in the fireplace.

Harry said, quietly, in the ensuing shocked silence, "I don't care. I don't care about how poorly _you_ may feel about faking your death and leaving me to suffer alone. I don't care about how much _you_ regret treating me like garbage for years. Know this, the two of you: I will never forgive you for what you dared do to me. You _will_ regret this." And with that, he stalked out of the office and down the stairs.

Albus sat down heavily behind his desk, and Snape slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite. With a wave of his wand, a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses floated out of a cabinet, poured a healthy measure into each glass, and placed themselves in front of the two men.

"Severus," Albus began, his voice very quiet. "I think we fucked up."

Little did they both know, it was about to get a _lot_ worse.

* * *

The Great Hall was shocked into silence when the doors to the main staircase flew open with a thunderous _CRASH._ Harry Potter strode in, looking for all the world like he was perfectly capable of murder, and that he wouldn't mind doing it at the moment. He stalked directly to the Head table, turned, and roared, "Listen up, fuckwits!"

Assured he had their attention, he continued. "I don't know what kind of lies you've been fed. But here's the truth. I have been unwillingly bound as a slave to Severus Snape, a man who has hated me ever since I was sorted. I did not want to return to the wizarding world, but he, and the cowardly piece of _filth_ that calls himself your Headmaster, forced me."

There was an uproar at this, and one obnoxious Hufflepuff yelled "How dare you call Dumbledore a coward!"

"How dare I?" If Harry was pissed before, now he was _furious._ "I fought the Dark Lord to a standstill, _died_ , and came back from the fucking _grave_ to save your sorry carcass, Smith! And where the _fuck_ was Dumbledore while I was doing that, huh? How many people _died_ because he, the most skilled wizard alive, was _hiding?_ Fuck Dumbledore, fuck Snape, and fuck you too. I just wanted to live out my life in fucking _peace_ , without any the crazy shit you backwards arsewipes get up to, and I was dragged back here without so much as a 'by your leave.'"

Harry glowered at the Great Hall, and continued in a calmer tone of voice. "I want you all here to spread what I've said here today. If I see a Daily Prophet article come out with the information I've given you all here today, with someone's name on it, I'll give that person a thousand Galleons. If multiple people are mentioned, they will _all_ be paid a thousand Galleons apiece. If Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape think they can destroy my life more than they already have, they're going to pay the price."

A particularly brave Ravenclaw raised a hand, tentatively. "What? You, in the blue." "Well, you said 'more than they already have.' What did you mean by that?"

Harry smiled slowly, and gave them the whole story. How Snape condemned the Potters to die and the Longbottoms to insanity when he related the prophecy to Voldemort. How Dumbledore convinced the Potters to leave the siege wards of Potter Manor and reside in a muggle home with little more than the Fidelius and fire-suppression wards. How Dumbledore refused to allow Sirius Black custody of his godson, driving the man into a frenzy of revenge and eventually unlawful incarceration. How Dumbledore left baby Harry on the doorstep of a bunch of magic-hating muggles, in the middle of the night, in November. How Dumbledore had a watcher during Harry's entire childhood, ensuring that the Headmaster knew about the abuse Harry suffered, but did nothing to stop it. How Dumbledore failed in his duty as a guardian, allowing Harry to grow up without any knowledge of his heritage of magic at all. How Snape treated Harry like garbage his entire Hogwarts career, despite his culpability in the deaths of the Potters. How Dumbledore treated the Philosopher's Stone as both a test and bait for the Darkest wizard of the age, in a school for children. How Dumbledore allowed Harry to suffer the suspicion and censure of his classmates in his second year, simply to toughen him up. How Snape, having full knowledge of Sirius Black's innocence, still tried to have the man Kissed. How Dumbledore encouraged both Harry and Hermione to _break the laws of time and space_ in an act that could have erased the both of them from existence.

On and on it went, the horrified audience forgetting their food entirely as Harry held them spellbound with a tale of horrendous perfidy. And he pulled no punches. Harry made certain to paint Dumbledore and Snape in the worst possible light. They were going to regret drawing him back to the magical world.


	11. Logic Wins the Day

_A/N: I always thought it was weird that no-one ever considered using Tom's horcruxes against him. It always seemed like the logical conclusion to me, but in the immortal words of Hermione Granger, "A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic." As you'll see near the end, this is an AU, though I'm not going to spoil exactly how quite yet. It should be fairly obvious how once you reach it._

 _Again, this was written in a single sitting with little to no proofreading, so please review and be gentle._

* * *

It had been an exhausting session with Dumbledore that evening. The revelation that Tom Riddle had split his soul not once, but _six times_ was weighing heavily on Harry's mind. And each one was an anchor with an unbreakable chain, keeping the madman bound to the living world. Wait, the chain…

"Sir," Harry began hesitantly, "the Horcruxes, they're still a _part_ of Voldemort, right? They're still his soul? And they're still attached to him somehow, because otherwise they wouldn't anchor him here, right?"

"Most likely yes, my boy. That would indeed be the logical conclusion to draw." Dumbledore looked at Harry curiously, as if wondering where he was going with his current train of thought.

"Since they're still connected to him, could we use them against him? Could we, I dunno, _reinforce_ that connection, then toss one through the Veil so it drags the rest with it?" Harry asked quietly. He was certain that his idea was stupid, that it would never work, but he had to _try,_ right?

Dumbledore sat up slowly, his eyes beginning to twinkle like Harry had never seen them before. "Yes, Harry, I believe that would be a possibility. I… I need to contact some old, old friends and research partners. If what you say is true, then we may be able to end this terrible war with very little effort. You had best get to bed my boy, there will be very little sleep for me tonight."

Harry left the Headmaster's office with a little more pep in his step than he had the previous day. He had _helped_ in a measurable way, first by getting Slughorn's memory, then by letting the Headmaster know his idea. He had made a difference. He collapsed into bed with a smile on his face.

Two weeks of classes and horrific headlines later, Harry was called to the Headmaster's office after breakfast and excused from his classes for the rest of the day. He gave the gargoyle the password ("Acid Pops" this time) and bound up the stairs. He found the Headmaster waiting there with Mad-eye and Remus, and grinned at them both. "Morning all. Headmaster, is this about the idea I had?"

Dumbledore was looking positively excited. "Indeed my boy. If all goes well, we may be able to end this war before lunchtime if all goes well." His demeanor went solemn as he regarded the other adults in the room. "However, Remus, Alastor, I will need an oath from you to never discuss what I disclose to you today. This knowledge would be terrible in the wrong hands." After the oaths were given, Dumbledore said quietly, "Voldemort has made Horcruxes. Six of them. What we are going to do today, if Harry's theory is correct, will end the war without a single drop of blood more being shed."

Mad-eye swore viciously, and Remus went very still. "I can't believe he went that far. No wonder he's insane." The werewolf said quietly.

"Indeed. Come, we must go quickly. I have discovered the hiding place of another Horcrux, and the defenses are pernicious indeed. I will need all of your help in getting there." The Headmaster produced a sock, and they all stared at it. "It's a portkey, grab it." Dumbledore said with a touch of exasperation. Harry wondered for a moment if the Headmaster's obsession with socks was because he kept using them as portkeys, then banished the thought from his mind. He needed to focus on what was happening here and now, or things would go poorly. He reached out and touched the portkey, and the world disappeared in a swirl of color.

The mismatched quartet rematerialized on a cliff above a blustery ocean. Harry couldn't help but notice the Headmaster drop the sock without care, and smirked a little. He was probably right. Dumbledore said above the roar of the wind, "I hope you all can swim, because we need to go down there." He gestured over the edge of the cliff, and Mad-eye scoffed.

"Albus, is old age getting to you? Just transfigure us a boat and we'll levitate it. No need to get wet." The Headmaster looked embarrassed for a moment, and replied "Quite right." With a few waves of his wand, the discarded sock turned into a rowboat with two wide seats, and they all clambered in. With a swish and a flick, the boat smoothly lifted up and over the edge of the cliff. As they neared the waves below, Harry spotted an inlet scant seconds before the Headmaster directed the boat toward it. A shelf of rock rose out of the water in front of bare wall, and it was here that they dismounted the boat. It remained hovering where they left it.

"Now, this defense is blood-locked. If you all will allow me…" The Headmaster produced a penknife from his robes, and made a small cut on his blackened hand. He smeared it on the wall, and it melted away to reveal a tunnel through the rock.

"Albus, are you _daft_?" Moody demanded. "You have no bloody idea what you just agreed to, why in blazes would you do that?"

"Er, what just happened?" Harry muttered to Remus as Dumbledore argued with a furious Mad-eye. Remus was tight-lipped and responded with a displeased tone.

"There are certain wards and defenses that can only be dispelled with the blood of those who wish to pass. Certain Gringotts vaults and family secrets are among their number. However, willingly given blood is also the ultimate enforcer of magical contracts.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could have included any number of contracts in that ward we just saw Albus dispel, with any number of penalties. Albus was foolish in the extreme to simply give him what he wanted. He could have just agreed to never cast magic again, or never breathe again, or murder the next person he saw."

Harry was aghast. _I thought Professor Dumbledore was smart!_ Remus saw his expression, and nodded. "I'm glad you understand the severity of what just happened. Never give your blood without an ironclad concept of what you're agreeing to."

There was a cry of "Enough!" from the Headmaster. He continued in a quieter tone, "What's done is done. Let us continue." The quartet went through the long and winding tunnel, and emerged onto a stone quay in a massive cavern. The ceiling was low, and most of the cavern was water. Harry could just make out an island in the distance. There was a chain attached to the quay, with the links disappearing into the water below. The rank smell of seawater permeated the air, with an undertone that Harry knew but couldn't quite remember.

Remus, Mad-eye, and Dumbledore all immediately began casting various charms, each apparently arriving at similar conclusions. They began discussing what to do, and the conversation quickly went above Harry's head. He started looking at his environment more thoroughly, and saw something in the water that horrified him.

"There are bodies in the water! And they're looking at us!" He remembered now, what the smell was. Rotting meat. The bins at the Dursleys had smelled much the same.

That brought the discussion to a close immediately. The three older men came to Harry's side, and Remus said "Inferi. He hid them beneath the water so they wouldn't be detected."

Mad-eye agreed. "They're likely going to attack as soon as we touch that damned soul container. We'd be better off inciting them here and now, backing into the tunnel, and creating a choke point so their numbers count for naught."

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A solid plan. Harry, you know the weaknesses of Inferi?"

Harry nodded his head jerkily, still staring at the pale faces looking back at him. "Fire and dismemberment. I have a decent cutting curse, and my _Incendio_ isn't bad." He looked up at the older men. "Should I aim for the head or something? That's what the muggles do for zombies."

Remus chuckled. "The muggles got that much right. In fact, with firearms the muggles would probably have more success fighting Inferi than we would." Mad-eye snorted and Remus gave him a look. "Mad-eye, your refusal to take the muggles seriously is a blind spot that could get you in a lot of trouble one day."

"Whatever. Let's start cutting these damned corpses down so we can get on with this." He thought for a moment, then began giving orders. "Potter, you're young, so you're faster than the rest of us. You'll incite them to attack. To do so, just cast an attack spell at the water, that should do it. When they start climbing out, fall back behind the rest of us. Albus, you'll be the center of the line. Remus, you're right, I'm left. A wall of fire fifteen yards ahead of us, with cutters at ten yards."

Harry had a thought, from one of the video games Dudley liked to play. "Professor, I have an idea. I don't know if it's possible though. Is there a spell that will create a line that cuts things, that hangs in midair like a string?"

Dumbledore immediately caught on to what Harry was saying. "Oh, clever indeed! Well done my boy, I'm glad we brought you along!" He turned to Moody and said, "The _secare_ ward, do you think Alastor, at the fifteen yard mark instead of the fire? Set at, hm, five feet?"

Mad-eye grinned, a horrific sight. "Well thought out Potter, we'll make an auror out of you yet. Though this is more curse-breaker territory, really. Yeah Albus, sounds about right. After Potter falls back, of course. No need to risk the Boy-Who-Lived getting shorter by a head."

They fell into position, with Harry still at the quay. He was incredibly nervous. All his other adventures were spur-of-the-moment things, but this was planned, and calculated. At the same time, he'd never felt more alive. Everything was sharp and bright, the world thrown into fine detail. _I could get used to this._

"Whenever you're ready, Potter."

"Right. Here goes." Harry focused on his wand, wondering which spell to use. The reductor curse was a solid choice, but he didn't want to deal with the water splashing on his glasses. The same went for the blasting curse. The disarming curse wasn't even worth considering. The cutting curse was probably his best bet. He let out a long breath, then called up the intent to _cut_. He aimed squarely at an Inferis collarbone, the monster in question an unmoving target. "Lacero!"

The blade of magic slipped through the water without hardly a ripple, and went through the Inferis neck with little resistance. Harry turned to jog back to the fallback point, and heard a wet _squish,_ and a moan. _Huh, they're just like Day of the Dead zombies._ Harry mused. _They don't seem like they'd be that dangerous, if it weren't for how many of them there are._

He came around a bend in the tunnel, and increased his speed until he was behind the older wizards. "They're on their way." Dumbledore nodded, and muttered " _Secare."_ A blue line, almost invisible, appeared, spanning the width of the tunnel, at a perfect height to decapitate the majority of the Inferi, unless they were _really_ short.

The Inferi came around the bend of the tunnel, moaning and holding their arms in front of them just like muggle zombies. Harry asked quietly, eyes glued to the sight, "Does the name 'George Romero' mean anything to you?" Mad-eye barked a laugh. "Aye lad, he was one of the worst breaches of the Statute of Secrecy in the last five hundred years. The only survivor of a massacre in the United States involving Inferi. No-one knew he escaped un-obliviated until a muggleborn saw one of his motion pictures. Thankfully, he didn't try to out us, and instead decided to make money off the idea."

The first rank of Inferi met the cutting ward, and simply fell apart. Some were bisected in the middle of the face, others at the neck, and still others at the shoulders. Still, none were making it past the ward. The bodies began piling up.

"We're going to need to make a higher line." Harry said quietly. "They'll start climbing over the other bodies soon." Dumbledore muttered " _Secare"_ again, and another blue line, a foot above the first, flickered into view. He repeated it a few times, until there were blue lines every foot, up to the ceiling.

"That ought to do it." the venerable Headmaster said. He turned to the others and said, "I believe we should disseminate this tactic as far as we can, as quickly as we can. I thought these Inferi were going to be quite the challenge, but this is nearly boring." Mad-eye and Remus nodded in agreement.

Harry spoke up, emboldened by the success of his idea. "Why don't we send a portkey message to Bill Weasley right now?" The others looked at him quizzically. Remus said curiously, "I've never heard of a portkey message."

Harry flushed. "I know you can make anything into a portkey, and you can make a portkey so it's timed. So, why not make a letter into a portkey, and set the timer for, I dunno, ten seconds?" The others continued to stare, and he blushed harder. "Nevermind it was a stupid idea."

"Harry, that was quite definitely not a stupid idea." Remus said. He started laughing. "I can't believe no one has ever thought of that before! We're all a bunch of ninnies!"

Mad-eye was chortling, as was Dumbledore. The latter looked at him with the twinkle going full bore, and said with pride lining every word, "Harry, you will end up reshaping our society, mark my words. Two brilliant, yet unheard of, ideas, in less than five minutes." He then conjured a quill and parchment, and jotted down a few lines. He folded it, duplicated it a few times, and muttered " _Portus_ " with a tap of his wand to each letter. He dropped them all, and they vanished in the order they had been tapped. He looked back up at Harry and said, "My boy, you will most likely have a chapter to yourself in the next edition of Golinard's. I don't believe there has been a breakthrough in curse breaking procedures like this since the invention of ward sappers in 1657."

Harry gaped. "Really? But it was so obvious…" He wondered how wizarding society had manage to survive as long as it had, if it overlooked things that were so plain to see.

"Albus, I think we're running out of Inferi." Remus announced, looking back at their trap. Indeed, the flow of animated corpses was slowing down to a trickle, though the pile of dismembered carcasses was at least eight feet high. Harry had to squash down nausea at the sight. He hadn't quite been prepared for so much...gore. He had to wonder just how much the other men had seen, that they weren't visibly affected by the carnage.

"It seems so. Let's wait a bit longer for any stragglers, then continue." They waited for a another ten or so minutes in silence, until Harry began to fidget. "Harry." Dumbledore said, an eyebrow raised. "Be patient. Rushing into a situation one is unsure of can be a fatal mistake." Harry calmed himself, and they waited a few minutes more.

Finally after about ten minutes without a single Inferi showing it's rotting face, the four broke formation and headed toward the pile of corpses. Dumbledore raised his wand and said " _Evanesco."_ The pile vanished, and they continued. As they rounded the corner, they saw a single Inferi struggling to get out of the water. It raised its head as it heard them approach, and let out a chilling moan before it slipped beneath the waves again.

"Huh, what's wrong with this one?" Mad-eye grumbled. He clumped forward, and leaned over the edge for a better look, wand at the ready. He then barked a laugh, and said, "Potter, how much power did you put into that first cutter? I'm seeing one decapitated Inferi, and this one here got cut in half at the waist, with it's arms gone from the elbow."

Harry flushed again. He was doing that a lot tonight. "I figured too much was better than not enough." Mad-eye chortled again, and split the last Inferis head in half without a word.

"Well done lad. No such thing as overkill."

Dumbledore transfigured another boat from a stray pebble, and they set off across the lake. They reached the island with little effort, and once they did, the three older gentlemen again cast a bevy of charms before they set foot on the island. There was a plinth in the middle, with what appeared to be a birdbath on top. The group stepped around it silently, until they were arranged in a looked in, saw what appeared to be still, clear water, with a locket at the bottom. Dumbledore did more silent wandwork, his face becoming more grave by the second. His wand fell still, and he heaved a sigh.

"It appears Voldemort intended this liquid to be drunk. It is impossible to vanish or transfigure, and the basin itself is charmed unbreakable and imperturbable. The only way to empty the basin will be to drink the potion." He conjured a glass from nothing, and said calmly, "Unless Harry has another brilliant idea, I will drink the potion, we will collect the Horcrux, and we will be gone from here as quickly as we are able."

"Albus! We have no idea what that potion is meant to do! Of all of us here, you are the only one who knows how to destroy Voldemort for good. You can't do this." Remus pleaded. Dumbledore looked at him sadly.

"Remus, if I fall tonight, you and Alastor must go to Algernon Croaker, at the Department of Mysteries. He knows what I was working on. With my death, the oath will no longer bind you."

Harry racked his brain, and said, "Well, I do have an idea…" Dumbledore looked at him in shock.

"I was attempting to lighten the mood dear boy, I hardly expected you to succeed where I failed. Please, enlighten us."

Harry shrugged. "Transfigure an animal and make it drink it."

There was a moment of silence, and Dumbledore began to laugh again, this time a full belly laugh. Harry flushed angrily. He was only trying to help, there was no need to be so _rude_. When Dumbledore regained control of himself, he said, still chortling, "Harry, I do believe that this expedition would have gone very poorly indeed without your presence." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a quill, and transfigured it into a Labrador. He then conjured a bowl, and dipped it into the basin. He placed the filled bowl on the ground, and the Labrador began to slurp the potion up.

The other men were grinning as well, and Harry fidgeted in embarrassment. He didn't think he'd been all that useful, he only pointed out obvious things. "Well done Harry," Remus said quietly. "Well done indeed."

The Labrador was not a fast-drinking animal, but they weren't in a rush. Twenty minutes or so later, the bowl was emptied for the last time, and the locket was retrieved from the basin. Harry's scar prickled, and he rubbed it irritably. He looked at the other men, and asked, "What now?"

"Now, my boy, we take a portkey to the Department of Mysteries, and defeat Voldemort." Dumbledore was outright grinning now, his eyes fairly disappearing in laugh lines. He fished out another sock, and Harry barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.


	12. Gilderoy Lockhart's Job Interview

Gilderoy Lockhart's Job Interview

 _A/N: I saw a hilarious comic online, and HAD to write down this little thing. It was jotted down in one go, with just minimal proofreading. That's starting to become a habit of mine…_

 _As always, Read and Review._

* * *

Albus sent the most recent applicant for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position from his office with a blithe "I'll get back to you shortly about your application, Mr. Darhew. Enjoy your afternoon!" and a twinkle. After the door had closed with a soft _thump_ Albus swore softly and cursed Tom under his breath for the umpteenth time for cursing the position. It had become deuced difficult to find applicants that were both qualified for the position and willing to risk death, dismemberment, insanity, inexplicable de-aging (the Depart of Mysteries were still trying to figure that one out), and/or annihilation in exchange for a taxing position with a poor salary. He'd have given Severus the job years ago if it weren't for the fact that he needed the taciturn potions master to wrangle those little Slytherin bastards and nullify the attributes that placed them in the house in the first place. It was difficult to hone one's cunning if everything was easily obtained, after all.

Albus glanced down at his schedule, and cast an idle _Tempus_. Oh dear. It was Lockhart's turn. Albus sighed again, swore again, and cast a Patronus message to call the man up the stairs. Damn Tom anyway for making this garbage necessary. Albus remembered Lockhart from his school days, and unless the puffed-up popinjay had changed in a major way (unlikely, from the garbage he passed off as non-fiction) he was almost certainly a fraud, and entirely unsuited to the Defense position. There came a knock on the door, and the man himself strode in, with glinting teeth, an obnoxious smile, and a set of garishly magenta robes that even Albus wouldn't wear.

"Good _morning_ Albus old chap! Fear not, I saw some of those poor delusional fools who you've been interviewing, and I'm sure we can both agree that I'm a cut above the rest, eh? After all, who among them could compare to myself? Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Forces Defense League; _and_ five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award, though I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee just by _smiling_ at her!" Lockhart gave a jovial chuckle, and _winked_ at Albus. Albus managed a weak smile, though he was just barely restraining the urge to hit the imbecile with a Slapping Charm.

"Indeed Gilderoy, but I noticed here that you never submitted a CV with your application. Were you going to hand that to me here and now?"

"Oh pish tush old chum!" Albus twitched and reflected that the Slapping Charm was sounding better than ever. "All of my relevant accomplishments can be found in my published works! Why, I can't fathom that any of the wretched specimens I saw leaving your office could possibly have beaten back the Wagga-Wagga werewolf like I did! It's plain to me that I am the only possible choice you could make here!" More grinning, more winking, and was that a _twinkle?_

Albus prided himself on his tolerance, but this could not stand. No one, _no one_ was allowed to twinkle except him. It was his signature! Gilderoy Lockhart was going to have to die. Albus began reaching into his robes for his wand, and paused. Lockhart _was_ applying for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, and the position _was_ cursed. Maybe, just maybe, the problem would take care of itself…

Albus twinkled back merrily, and grinned broadly. "Of course Gilderoy, of course. I had to leave the position open to every applicant in the name of impartiality, but once I heard you applied for the position I knew I could settle for nothing less! Please, leave your desired booklist with Minerva, and I hope to see you on the twenty-ninth of August for our annual pre-term staff meeting."

As the ponce left his office, Albus helped himself to a lemon drop for a job well done. If he was lucky, Harry would kill this one too.


	13. Malfoy the Gryfferin

_A/N: Lots of people have made the observation that Draco Malfoy, in canon, is quite possibly the most Gryffindor-ish Slytherin there ever was. This is my own take on the trope, and on Harry's own Slytherin qualities._

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy stood in the Entrance Hall, wands drawn. A muttering crowd was gathered around, waiting for the inevitable burst of spellfire. Harry was dimly aware of Fred and George starting a book, but reserved most of his attention for the Slytherin in front of him. Malfoy sneered viciously, eyes glittering with malice. "How _dare_ you. My father-"

"For Merlin's _sake,_ Malfoy, stand on your own two feet for once in your life!" Harry interrupted. The crowd hushed momentarily. This wasn't how the normal Potter/Malfoy altercation was supposed to proceed. Malfoy was supposed to say something derogatory, Potter would respond with something infinitely more witty, Malfoy would mention his father, Potter would respond with something viciously cutting, Malfoy would step over the line, Potter would hex him, Snape would show up, and Potter would get detention. That's how it always worked. Potter wasn't supposed to give Malfoy _advice_.

"Malfoy, you have no redeeming qualities of your own. You're obtuse, offensive, obvious, impulsive, weak, cowardly and stupid. The only reason why you aren't at the very bottom of the Hogwarts pecking order is because other people who actually _have_ power back you up at every turn." Potter said dismissively, his eyes boring into those of the petulant wizard opposite him. "If your father weren't on the Board of Governors and your godfather weren't your Head of House, you would never spend a day out of detention. Your mouth consistently writes checks your wand can't cash, and you rely on the political and magical might of other people to pull you out of every sticky situation you find yourself in."

Malfoy was turning red with fury, and but couldn't rebut the statement. It was true, all of it.

Potter continued. "And the worst part? You're so _obvious_ about it. My god, you're positively _Gryffindor_ about it! You're constantly starting arguments with people more powerful than you, bragging at the top of your lungs about things no one cares about. For Merlin's sake, _Ron_ is more subtle than you! I think the subtlest thing thing I've ever seen you do was in first year, when you tried to get us in trouble for being out of bed after curfew. You were more subtle when you were _eleven,_ Malfoy! What happened to you, to make you more of a Gryffindor than a Slytherin?"

Malfoy couldn't respond with any kind of rational argument, so he just lashed out. "Fuck you, Potter! When the Dark Lord comes for you, I'll enjoy listening to your screams before he makes you beg for death!"

Potter didn't even twitch. "See what I mean? You're openly advocating support for a Dark Lord, in the middle of a _school_. In any sort of rational society, you'd have been expelled ages ago for that kind of garbage. The only reason you haven't been is because Daddy Dearest is on the Board of Governors." Potter turned suddenly, and looked over the heads of the crowd right at the listening Professor Snape. "Professor, I'd advise teaching the members of your house what _subtlety_ and _cunning_ actually are. They're noticeably lacking in that department."

Potter turned away, and heard a cry of " _Lacero!"_ coming from behind him. He didn't move to block it. Instead, he whipped around, looking directly into Snape's eyes, and spread his arms wide. The curse bit into him viciously across his chest and he curled around the wound and cried out in pain. But he didn't attack. Instead, he slowly unbent, and looked Malfoy in the eyes, blood blooming across his robes. "Now, _that's_ more like it!" He shouted over the shocked cries of the crowd. "Cursing people from behind? _Definitely_ Slytherin behavior. And this is _exactly_ what I was talking about!" The crowd hushed once again, hanging on the celebrity's every word.

Potter started to laugh bitterly. "I'll bet a thousand galleons that Malfoy doesn't get more than a week's detention and fifty points lost. If that spell had hit my arm, it would have cut it off. If it'd caught me across the neck, that spell would have _killed_ me. Any other Slytherin student would be expelled before the day is out. But you know what? Nothing will happen. We'll _both_ get detentions, we'll _both_ get points taken, and nothing will change. Even though all I did was tell the truth, and he tried to kill me.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Madame Pomfrey."

As Potter strode from the Entrance Hall, Severus Snape reflected that perhaps Potter wasn't such a dunderhead after all.


	14. How Harry came to be

Harry knelt among piles of gold, mounds of jewelry and heaps of magical artifacts, and wept silently, his mother's journal open in front of him. The reason for his tears was not apparent at first, but if one examined the book in front of him, the cause became clear.

 _April 20, 1977_

 _Diary, it finally happened. James Potter kissed me! I know I've complained a lot in the past about him, but he's really not like I wrote before. He's handsome, and brave, and just WONDERFUL! It happened after he gave me some chocolates as an apology gift for cursing Severus that one time by the lake. I'd just eaten one when I realized that all those years he'd been trying to show me how much he cared. Every time he cursed Severus, it was because he didn't want me in danger from the Slytherins. I ran down to the common room to tell him that I'd figured it out, that I was sorry for being so mean, and he just smiled at me and opened his arms and we KISSED! It was wonderful!_

 _April 28, 1977_

 _Diary, James finally showed me how he knew that Severus wasn't trustworthy. He brought out this amazing map that he and his friends made, and showed that Severus was spending loads of time with Avery and Goyle and that lot. James always said they were bad news, and he was right._

 _James is so thoughtful, he always gives me those chocolates he knows I love._

 _July 3, 1977_

 _Diary, James did it! He finally asked me to marry him! It was so wonderful the way he did it, he took us out to a fancy restaurant, and we went on a delightful walk through Godric's Hollow. He knelt down right in the middle of the town square, and gave me his mother's ring! I love him so much, and now I get to spend the rest of my life with him!_

 _December 10, 1979_

 _Diary, I'm pregnant! I was starting to think I'd never be able to have children, even though James and I have been trying for ages, but the Healers say I'm going to have a baby boy, just like James wanted! He's always been going on about having an heir, and I finally gave him one! This is the most amazing day of my life._

 _Febuary 4, 1980_

 _Diary, I'm so scared. Albus came today and told us about a prophecy, one about our baby! He said we would need to go into hiding, and promised to put us under the Fidelius. I don't know what's going to happen now, but at least James will be with me._

 _August 10, 1980._

 _Well Diary, I figured it out. That filthy scumbag Potter dosed me with Amortentia near the end of my seventh year at Hogwarts. I suppose he ran out, now that we can't leave the house due to the Fidelius. The only reason I haven't smothered him in his sleep yet is because I'd likely be sent to Azkaban, and I can't leave little Harry alone like that. Potter may be a piece of shit, but Harry is_ my _baby, and I'll protect him to my dying breath._

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, and another, trying to calm down. He wasn't mourning his parents, not precisely. He was mourning his memories of them. Specifically his memories of James Potter. Harry was forced to acknowledge now that James was everything that Snape had ever said he was. And so was Lily.

* * *

 _A/N: I always thought it was really weird that Lily Evans went from hating James Potter's guts to dating him in the space of one year. Love potions always made more sense to me, and it draws an extra link of similarity between Harry and Tom. Both of them were born of rape via love potion, and both of them were loved by their mothers for far too short a time._


	15. A Pivotal Moment

Hermione, Ron, and Harry stood in a wrecked cafe on Tottenham Court Road, and stared down at the two unconscious Death Eaters there amongst the broken crockery and splattered desserts. Dolohov had what looked like an eclair smeared across his face, and Rowle had frosting on his nose. The three teens were almost untouched, though their posture betrayed their adrenaline-fueled tension. Hermione spoke first.

"We can't just let them go. They'll tell everyone where we were. We'll be tracked."

Harry nodded. "Do either of you know the memory charm?"

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably. "I do." She stepped forward, and pointed her wand at the two killers. " _Obliviate."_

The deed done, she unconsciously stepped back into the formation the three of them normally took. Harry on the right, tense, moody and sharp. Hermione in the middle, observant, careful and methodical. Ron on the right, analytical, bold, and bright. Ron spoke quietly. "How much did you take?"

"Just a couple hours. They won't remember how they got here or that they saw us."

Ron remained silent for a moment, deliberating. Then he spoke slowly. "We need to do more. _Take_ more. We stunned Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries, and they sent him to Azkaban. Now here he is like it never happened. Stunners and memory charms aren't enough any more."

Harry looked at him askance. "Are you saying we should kill them? They're no threat to us now."

Hermione joined the discussion, her eyes unfocused in a way that the young men with her recognised. She was deep in thought, and voicing her thoughts aloud to them. "Not a threat to us, but if we just leave them, how many people are they going to kill and torture? If we don't do something, those deaths will be on our consciences." Her eyes came back to the present. "Ron's right. They've had their chances, first and second. Third even. They made their choice." She smiled a little grimly. "We don't have to kill them though. Remember Lockhart?"

Ron scoffed and Harry looked thoughtful. "You think we should wipe everything? Put them in the long-term damage ward?"

"It'd be even worse for the other side than killing them. If we kill them, that's the end. But if we make them vegetables, they'll have to spend time and money taking care of them, if they don't just kill them themselves." Hermione explained.

Harry smirked. "In that case, why don't you teach us the memory charm? We can practice it on these two, without any consequences for botching it." Ron laughed, his voice taking on a slightly nasty tone.

The three spent a pleasant, albeit vindictive, ten minutes wiping Dolohov's and Rowle's memories all the way back to their births. When they were finished, the two were drooling and staring blankly at the ceiling. Hermione set the cafe to rights, and they went on their way. The war had changed, but only time would tell how.

 _A/N: I always thought this was a very pivotal moment. The Trio had two enemies at their mercy, and decided to let them go rather than make a more permanent solution. Dolohov later went on to kill Remus Lupin at the Battle of Hogwarts. If they had decided to kill their enemies or permanently incapacitate them somehow, the outcome would have been very different._


	16. Science plus Magic equals Scary

He stood on the gentle slope of Hogwarts' grounds, feeling the grass between his toes. It was a beautiful day, warm, with thick puffy clouds scudding across the sky with the light breeze. Before him, like a cancer in his senses, lay the Forbidden Forest. Behind him, hiding like frightened children, were the students and those teachers who weren't able to fight. To his left and right, Filius Flitwick and Minerva McGonagall, both masters in their fields. He cricked his neck, let a little grunt of pleasure escape, and said quietly, "Well, I suppose we should get it over with." They nodded, and he closed his eyes. First, the heat.

He reached out with his mind, and felt for the waters of the lake. It was vast, and thanks to the unseasonably hot season, very nearly warm. He felt the various beings who dwelt there, and made certain to avoid them. He grasped the heat in the top thirty or so feet of water, and _pulled._

Water holds a LOT of heat. He was well aware of this, but he also knew that he was very capable of doing this. He _pulled,_ and _compressed_ , and _contained._ Finally, he opened his eyes and wiped his forehead, while smirking at the tiny sun in front of him. His companions were looking at it askance, and Filius was edging away slowly. He glanced to his left, and saw that the lake was frozen solid.

He gestured, more for the sake of familiarity than anything else, and the little sun zipped away, over the tops of the trees into the distance. A second passed, and he conjured blindfolds for his companions. They wordlessly pulled them on, and a moment later there was just...whiteness. A thunderous roar filled the air, more a physical sensation than an actual sound. The ground shook, and a violent, stingingly hot wind nearly knocked him down. His sight returned a moment later, and he looked at where the forest was supposed to be.

Ash. Nothing but ash. A vast black and orange mushroom cloud rose above where the forest used to be. Hogwarts' wards had once again proven their worth, and protected those under her care. He swallowed back bile, but the knowledge of the lives he had just erased returned to him, and he vomited.

 _A/N: This is what happens when you combine basic scientific knowledge, a half-assed understanding of the math involved, and magic. What happened here is that the protagonist of the story took the heat energy from the water of the lake, compressed it, and released it in the depths of the Forbidden Forest. I did some half-assed googling, some half-assed math, and came up with this:_

 _Assuming the Black Lake is around Lake Tahoe size (from the movies, not super surprising), it has a surface area of 191 square miles. If we take that measurement and multiply it by 30 feet, we get 4.5*10¹² liters, after unit conversion._

 _Water has a heat capacity of about 4 joules per gram for every degree Celsius. If we assume the Black Lake was at 60° F, that's about 15° C. Assuming we can just scale it up (I have no idea if you can), that means that at 15° C, each gram of water contained about 60 J of energy. Scaling that up again, means that each liter of water contained about 60,000 J of energy._

 _Now going back to the volume of the top thirty feet of the Black Lake, if we multiply the 4.5*10¹² liters by the 60,000 J/liter, we get 2.7*10¹⁷J._

 _2.7*10¹⁷J. Now, for perspective: a one-megaton bomb has about 4*10¹⁵J of energy. This is about fifty times stronger. For perspective, the bomb dropped on Hiroshima was about .015 megatons. Note the decimal point._


	17. Harry John Wick Potter

John sat, sipped his coffee, and stared at the individual across the table. She stared back, her jaw set in a manner that said, " _I'm going to get what I want, come Hell or high water."_ Her eyes were harder than he remembered, although the shade of brown hadn't changed. She'd managed to garner some measure of control over her hair. Overall, though, she was just like the Hermione Granger he'd gone to school with. He sighed, set down his coffee with a small _click_ , and said "What do you want, Miss Granger?"

Her lips thinned in a manner that reminded him intensely of his old Transfiguration professor and she snapped, "It's Weasley now, Harry, and don't-"

"John."

"What?"

"Harry Potter is dead, victim of a mugging gone wrong. I'm John. John Wick." His face remained impassive, and he picked up his coffee again. "I'll ask you again. What do you want?"

She took a deep breath, visibly mastering anger. _The fuck is she mad about?_ "You-Know-Who has returned. We need your help to put him down again. His old followers-"

"Stop right there." She did, a muscle in her neck jumping as her jaw clenched. "Let me guess what you were going to say. You were going to say that his old followers that pleaded the Imperius curse jumped right back on the bandwagon, that the Ministry was seeded with double agents for decades, and that the Aurors were helpless due to a combination of poor training, low funding, and Death Eaters in disguise. Albus Dumbledore has tasked my old school chum to bring me back to Great Britain, because somehow an exiled Hogwarts dropout can do what the entire magical Ministry cannot. Close?"

She blinked. "Exiled?"

He gave her an exasperated look. "Really? That never made it into the _Prophet?_ Yeah. I was dragged from the Dursley's place in the middle of the night, and thrown in front of the Wizengamot and put on trial for sedition and murder. The murder charges couldn't stick, not enough evidence, but the sedition did. My magic was bound, and they hit me with a one-way portkey to New York. I spent three weeks on the street, three years in a foster home, five years in the military, five as a gun for hire, and five as a married man. Now my wife is dead, barely even cold in the ground, and my old school crush is sitting across the table from me telling me I need to go back to a country full of ungrateful sycophants to haul their lazy, backwards asses out of the fire." He leaned across the table, coffee forgotten, and she leaned back unconsciously. "Give me one good reason why I should help."

"We'll pay you."

She was shocked at the effect her words had. He immediately calmed down, leaned back, smiled, and said, "Well, let's talk business. What are you offering?"

She gathered herself. "We're prepared to offer ten thousand galleons for the capture of the self-styled Lord ...Voldemort." He raised an eyebrow. She'd managed to get the name out with just a small pause. He waited for the rest.

After an uncomfortable pause, he said "What's the galleon-to-pound exchange rate these days? Still five-to-one?" At her nod, he continued. "So about fifty thousand pounds to kill one of the most dangerous men alive, with no provisions for personal expenses or injury, and nothing for the rest of his followers either. Am I correct?" Small spots of color had appeared on her cheeks, but she nodded again. "Miss Gra- Weasley, before I married I was a hired killer in great demand. Each of my contracts, for men much less dangerous than Tom Riddle mind you, paid more than fifty thousand, plus expenses. Unless you can make me a more reasonable offer, I'm going to ask you to leave."

She leaned forward. She was clearly accustomed to the art of the deal. "Make me a counter offer, Mr. Wick. I've been authorised to negotiate on behalf of the Ministry."

He smirked. It wasn't a pleasant expression. "A million pounds for the Dark Lord. Fifty thousand pounds each, for each of his followers. A pardon for any actions I may have taken in the past, and amnesty for all activities in the future, in perpetuity. My exile rescinded, with a public apology on the front page of the Prophet from every person involved. The binding on my magic removed, and an oath from the Ministry of Magic that they will never attempt to bind it again. And I mean the entire ministry, down to the janitors." Hermione took a deep breath to shout at the obstinate berk across the table from her before he added, "And the head of Albus Dumbledore on a pike in the middle of Diagon Alley."

She choked on her own saliva, and Wick calmly poured her a glass of water. When she'd regained her breath, she demanded "What in Merlin's name do you have against the Headmaster? He's a great man, and the only reason wizarding Britain hasn't fallen against the Dark!"

Wick's calm fractured. He spoke more slowly, his words gaining a kind of sepulchral power as a result of his deliberation and rage. "You are aware, I assume, of the requirements of the power binding ritual?" She wasn't, and shook her head. "Well, let me make this perfectly clear to you. There are three requirements. The blood of the victim, willingly or unwillingly taken. A sacrifice, usually a house-elf. And a wizard of greater power than the victims to serve as a binder. Want to guess who the sacrifice and binder were?"

He stood slowly, leaning across the table with his fists supporting his weight. Hermione could smell the coffee on his breath when he spoke next, in a quiet voice that was filled with a remarkable amount of menace. "The binder chose an elf that was particularly devoted to me, to give the binding more power. Dobby was screaming for me to help him, to _save_ him, all the way until the binder cut his throat. Then the binder, _Albus Fucking Dumbledore,_ the man who had just murdered my truest friend, bound my magic in chains without even looking me in the eye. Do you know what it's like, to have your magic bound? Imagine that someone poured scalding hot tea down your throat, and you had no choice but to swallow. Imagine that burning feeling, spreading down your throat, as if your esophagus was blistering. Now imagine feeling that, day in and day out, for _eighteen years._ _That_ is what Albus Dumbledore did to me. _That_ is why I will refuse to set foot in any country that allows him to retain power and influence, let alone draw breath. No, Weasley. You have my terms. They are final. I don't particularly care whether or not you fulfil them. So far as I'm concerned, the citizens of Magical Britain are welcome to reap what they've sown."

He stood, and began walking away, presumably to get another cup of coffee, his mug in his left hand. "Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

He was, of course, John Wick. So he was entirely prepared when he heard the distinctive hissing rustle of wood against cloth. He whirled around, already in the motion of throwing his coffee cup when the witch barked "Stupefy!" The ceramic missile flew true, intercepting the red beam of light scant feet in front of her wand. His left hand occupied with throwing the mug, his right snagged a knife from the magnetic strip above the sink. Before the witch could react, he'd thrown it into her right shoulder, where it lodged in the joint. He arm fell slack to the side, and she cried out in pain. He crossed the kitchen in two strides, vaulted over the table, and tore the knife out. He was not gentle. He grabbed her by the front of her robes and flung her onto the table, the knife now right below her right eye.

"You had your chance, _Weasley_. You can return to your Ministry and your precious Headmaster and tell them this: _I refuse to help._ They made their bed, now they can lie in it. Maybe when Magical Britain has been burnt to ashes something worthwhile will take its place." The last thing she remembered was a vicious punch.

* * *

It was only two days before they sent someone to drag him, kicking and screaming, back to Britain. It was a team of three Aurors, all of them wet behind the ears. They didn't even bother with disillusionment charms. He sent them back alive, unconscious, and completely nude with a note. " _The answer is still 'No.' And if you think I can take out the Dark Lord, then you'll have to send better than these idiots."_

The next team was significantly larger, better equipped, and skilled. Ten Aurors, all of them in dueling robes over dragonhide, all disillusioned. He only managed to take out four of them before they realized he was there, and only the last one gave him any challenge. Moody really was as good as they said. Consequently, Moody was the only one sent back alive. Moody resigned from the Auror corps as soon as he got back to Britain, stating firmly that John was "the scariest goddamn fighter I've ever seen. It was like trying to hit something that dodged like a wraith, hit like a troll, and aimed like a goddamn centaur. I'm never going back there unless I get tired of living."

The kidnapping attempts stepped up after that. Portkeys in his mail, potions in his takeout. Finally John had had enough, and went to the only person he was sure would believe his story.

"Johnathan! As I live and breathe, it's good to see you again. Have a seat. I was so sorry to hear about Helen. She was a wonderful woman."

The pain of grief stabbed at him again, but John sat and mastered it, and even smiled a little. Winston was like the uncle he wished he had. Urbane, clever, and kind to those he liked, but capable of disciplining with the best. A good man. "It's good to see you as well Winston. I have an...unusual problem. Not business related, but I hope you'd be able to help me regardless."

Winston became slightly more grave. "I find, Johnathan, that a problem shared is a problem more easily solved. Tell me more."

"I'm afraid I can't do that here. Too many possible ears. Is there a more discreet location we can use?"

"Of course."

Ten minutes later they were in a small, obscenely comfortable room, with only a video camera providing security for the management of the Continental. The floor was polished hardwood, with a thick rug in the center. Four low chairs surrounded a good-sized coffee table, laden with every beverage imaginable. The walls were thick, probably armored, and lined with books on many subjects. Winston sipped his brandy, and waited for John to begin.

John stared at the floor, and began cautiously. "Have you ever heard of magic, Winston? Like real, honest magic? Wands and wizards and cauldrons?"

Winston's eyebrows rose. "Yes. They're not nearly as subtle as they think they are, and we at the Continental are more than accustomed to their machinations. Have you run across them?"

John snorted. "I used to be one of them. I was even famous amongst them." He looked up. "I'm guessing you know I didn't always used to be John Wick?" Winston nodded. "I used to be known as Harry Potter."

John was then afforded a never before seen sight as Winston did a spit-take, choked on his brandy, and started coughing loudly. The Manager of the Continental was known to be even more unflappable than the concierge. He'd seen blood, bullet holes, poisonings, kidnappings, robberies, celebrity assassinations, and more in his time, all with a raised eyebrow at the most. "I take it you've heard the name."

"Fuck. Give me a moment." John waited patiently while Winston got his breath back, and refilled his brandy. Winston took a fortifying sip, and motioned for John to continue.

"Well, I'm not sure if you heard, but when I was fifteen the Ministry of Wizarding Britain bound my magic and exiled me to the States. I faked my death, adopted a new name, and became John Wick when I was mugged and left for dead. I'm sure you know everything that happened after that."

"Of course." WInston smiled a bit. "In our line of work, having a shadowy past is nearly a requirement, but yours was crystal clear, all the way back until you were fifteen. The only thing unusual about your story was that no one at the Continental could find anything about you before the age of fifteen. And now I know why! Heaven only knows who's going to get the pool though." John raised an eyebrow, and Winston explained "Some of our more...undisciplined clientele have been placing bets on who you were before you appeared. I'm fairly certain no one has 'exiled hero of a foreign magical culture,' however."

John snorted. "Well, back to what I was talking about. It turns out that the Dark Lord, yes I know how ridiculous it sounds, the Dark Lord that was waging war when I was exiled is still around, and the magicals can't do anything about it. They sent one of their flunkies to drag me back to do it for them, and I took exception to it."

John heaved a sigh. "After I took care of the second black-bag team, they started putting portkeys in my mail, and potions in my take-out. It's getting obnoxious. Is there anything you can do to help me with this? I'm willing to pay, obviously."

Winston sat for a moment, idly turning his now-empty brandy glass between his fingers. He stopped, placed it soundly on the table, and stood. John rose as well, and Winston looked up at him, no trace of humor in his expression.

"Johnathan, I'm going to tell you something now that no one at the Continental knows." He took a slow, shuddering breath. "I was married once. Her name was Cassiopeia. I thought her name was beautiful, it suited her so well. She loved that constellation. I found out after we married that she was a squib, born to the family Black. It didn't matter to me of course, it just widened my view of the world a bit.

"Two years after we married, we had a daughter, Sophia. Another year after that, another daughter, Angela. They were so beautiful, all my girls." Tears were running unimpeded down Winston's face, but his voice was as clear as ever. "In July of '79, I came home after work, and the house was naught but ash. I must have dug through it for an hour, screaming myself hoarse before the Aurors came. They tried to obliviate me, blame it on an electrical fault, but I told them I was married to a squib and they let me keep the memories." Winston stopped talking for a moment, and then continued quietly.

"I found out two years later that the monster responsible for it was gone, vanquished by an infant. The poor little man had lost his family in the process. I did everything in my power to try to help the lil' bloke." Here, Winston's voice started to crack, and his old, rough, London accent bled through. "Bu' no ma'er wha' I did, the tossers a' th' Minis'ry woul'n gimme a chance." He took a another shuddering breath, marshalling what control he had left. He spoke again, once more proper Radio English. "So, Johnathan, consider this my thanks for taking care of that bastard Voldemort. I will do everything in my power to keep the magicals off your back and out of your affairs."

John responded the only way he could think of. With a heartfelt " _Thank you._ " He left quietly, leaving Winston alone to re-bandage a wound that would never fully heal.

* * *

Three days later, John reflected that Winston was _damn_ good at what he did. There hadn't been any potions in his food, no magic on his mail. He was starting to relax, and to consider living life again.

Then the package came. A kennel, with a puppy inside. Cute. A beagle mix maybe, John wasn't sure. He opened the attached letter, and his hands began to shake.

 _John,_

 _I'm sorry I can't be there for you. You still need something, someone, to love, so start with this, because the car doesn't count. I love you, John. This illness has loomed over us for a long time, and now that I have found my peace, find yours. Until that day,_

 _your best friend,_

 _Helen._

John broke down entirely. He lost count of how long he sat, his grief finally catching up to him. He folded the card up, staring at the flower on the front. A daisy. He looked at the puppy, who stared back with soulful eyes, begging to be let out. He sighed. He opened the cage, and withdrew the puppy, who seemed to be nervous about sharing space with this man who smelled of sadness and danger. He checked her name tag, and immediately thought of the card. "Daisy. Of course."

He spent the night trying to get comfortable, with a squirming little ball of fur trying to get closer than was strictly possible. After fitful sleep, we woke up and went to grab his paper, only to be startled when Daisy trotted past him into the yard. "Hey- Oh. Right." He had a dog now. He was going to need to get food, and toys, take her to the vet… He supposed cornflakes would do for this morning. "I'll grab you some kibble later."

John stopped to fill up on the way, and was interrupted by a rough-looking young man speaking Russian to his friends. His friends went inside, and the kid wandered over.

"Nice ride!" The kid said in only moderately accented English, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Mustang, Boss 429. She a 70?"

"Sixty-nine" John responded, entirely uninterested in conversation.

"Ah" He took another drag. "Beautiful car."

"Thanks."

The now-annoying kid tapped on the hood with both hands, and leaned forward like he was going to share a dirty secret. "How much?"

That brought John up short. "Excuse me?"

"How much for the car?"

John was about to say something like "I'm not selling" but suddenly the words from the note went back through his mind. _You still need something, someone, to love, so start with this, because the car doesn't count._ He considered for a little while. "I put a lot of work into her. More than ten grand. It'd go for a hundred eighty k at an auction, easy. What are you willing to pay?"

The kid leaned back. "How about a hundred eighty k? I can have it for you, today, cash. No auctioneers taking a cut."

John smiled a little. Maybe he could start getting his life on track. Helen had never steered him wrong. "Deal."

* * *

An hour later, John was somewhere very familiar and was surprised by how easy it was. _Back on my old killing grounds. Lots of familiar faces._ It seemed the kid, Iosef, and his friends were Tarasovs, and apparently the only ones who didn't know who he was. John trailed behind Iosef, winking at the old faces and making hushing gestures and pointing at the kid's back. He got a lot of smothered grins in response.

The kid took him all the way into the "inner sanctum," where Viggo was relaxing. It was awfully bold for Iosef to just waltz in here, John mused. Viggo turned from the window at Iosef's entry, sipping his vodka, and spat it back out when he saw who was with him. _Huh. Two spit-takes in a week._

"John?!" Viggo's eyes were bulging and the beginnings of panic was starting to bloom on his features.

"Hey Viggo, long time no see. Your boy Iosef here bought my car, and said he'd be able to pay cash for it. I guess he's here to get the cash."

" _My_ son bought _your_ car?!" Ah. That explained how Iosef was able to just mosey on in.

"Yeah. It's parked out back if you want a look. I didn't know he was your son though. He got a fair deal, no worries."

"Shit John. I thought you were working again for a minute there and this was gonna be my last day on Earth. Word's been going around that you visited the Continental last week." Viggo has backed up from the precipice of panic, and just engaged John like an old business partner. _Which I suppose I am._

"Yeah, I was just asking Winston for a favor. Not working again though." John glanced at Iosef, who was looking wide-eyed at the exchange between his father and the stranger he'd bought a car from earlier. "Uh, Iosef. Not to be a pain in the ass, but…"

"Oh, right." Iosef want to a safe on the wall, put in the code, and withdrew 18 bundles of cash. He loaded it into a briefcase, and handed it over. "The keys?"

John relinquished the keys willingly, and with a smile. "Have fun with her, kid." He turned to Viggo and said, "I'll make my own way out. See you 'round, Viggo."

"Be seeing you, John."

The ex-killer left the room with a spring in his step, and Viggo immediately rounded on his son. "Do you know who that was?"

Iosef, although no stranger to confusion, was finding that today was worse than other days. "Some guy? I dunno, I thought he had a nice car and offered to buy it. Why, who is he?"

Viggo refilled his vodka and knocked it back in one. "That was the scariest, most dangerous motherfucker I've ever met. He used to work for me, back in the bad old days when the Tarasovs were weak. I once saw him kill three men with nothing but a pencil. _A fucking pencil!_ " He took a moment to have another sip. "And one day he wanted out. A woman, of course. So I gave him an impossible task. A job no one could have done." Another sip.

"The bodies he laid to rest that day, form the foundation of what we are today. Be thankful, my son. You met Baba Yaga, and survived."

* * *

John stood outside the wreckage of his home, a dead puppy in his arms, and raged silently. He was shaking, and Jimmy stood behind him, lit from behind by flashing emergency lights. It wasn't enough, that the British magicals had taken his home, his friends, his legacy, and his magic from him. Now they had taken the last gift he would ever receive from his wife. He turned, and something in his face made Jimmy blanch and take a step back.

"Jimmy. I'm going to go now. I need to talk to the Management."

"R-right." Jimmy didn't even look like he was thinking about holding John back. "I'll let the others know. Is this about, uh, work?" _This_ was the still-burning wreckage of John's home and the dead puppy in his arms.

John's face may as well have been carved from granite. "No. This is personal. Don't worry. It's going to be taken care of overseas. No messes for you to clean up. If I'm still alive after, I'll be back."

He began to walk away, and almost missed Jimmy asking him to wait. He stopped, not turning, and heard Jimmy say, "I don't know who thought fucking you over like this was a good idea, John, but they killed a puppy. _Your_ puppy. They're assholes, and stupid besides. The world'll be better off without 'em. Good hunting." John kept walking, and Jimmy thought to himself _There aren't enough body bags in the WORLD to keep up with him._

* * *

The Concierge was having his composure tested tonight. After seeing _John Wick_ walk in, bloody, burned, barefoot, carrying a dead puppy, and ask to see the Management, he was certain Wick had lost his mind. It didn't often happen in their business, but it _did_ happen. Only to find out that Wick was perfectly sane, and madder than he'd ever been. Apparently someone had torched his home, killed the puppy, and tried to kill him. The Concierge didn't have the firmest of moral groundings, but he was entirely sympathetic when ordered to arrange for a tasteful burial for the puppy. _Daisy_. It was a shame, he reflected absentmindedly, when true innocents suffered needlessly.

The next morning, he provided Wick with a new passport, driver's license, and breakfast. The moment Wick left the premises, the Concierge told the sommelier and tailor to prepare their finest selections, as a discerning customer would soon be by. He watched as John went in, bloody but unbowed, and came back out as something...other.

The Concierge had seen many dangerous people in his time. Psychopaths, sociopaths, hit men, murderers, snipers, knife men, femmes fatale, and even a _luchadore_ contract killer. None of them held a candle to the sheer _potential_ in the personage that placed his key on the counter to check out. John Wick had earned a nickname from the Tarasovs in that bloody night five years ago, but the Concierge fancied that _Baba Yaga_ wasn't entirely appropriate for the man. As trite as it sounded, and the Concierge winced a little in his head just for thinking of it, John Wick reminded him of nothing less than the cold and utter certainty of the Grim Reaper.

* * *

Magical Britain was smug and secure in their superiority. They woke up knowing they were better than Muggles, went about their days knowing they were better than Muggles, and went to bed knowing they were better than Muggles. Went to school, went to work, and went to play knowing they were better than Muggles. Fought, lived, and died knowing they were better than Muggles.

It must have been a horrific shock for the Aurors on the scene to find twenty-five "pure-bloods of good standing" shot, stabbed, strangled, blown up, and left to die by Muggle means. The perpetrator had even left a note.

 _To the citizens of magical Britain._

 _You let it get this bad. Instead of getting off your lazy asses and doing something about it, you sent armed teams to drag me back here and do it myself. You destroyed my home. You killed my dog. You destroyed my_ _peace_ _. So I will destroy yours._

 _If I hear of anyone, ANYONE, giving any being fewer rights than a pure-blood in good standing, I will kill them. I do not care who you are, or why you are doing it. I do not care if you have family, friends, or loved ones. I do not care if you shut yourself in the tallest tower, deepest dungeon, or behind the strongest wards. I will find you, and I will kill you._

 _The servants of the so-called "Lord Voldemort" will be the first. The Wizengamot will be the second. I will purge this nation of every last piece of the government that wronged me._

 _And you cannot stop me._

 _Baba Yaga._


End file.
